


In Dreams

by Jaye_Voy



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Adult Content, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Language, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: Faramir's dreams drive him to a fateful meeting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Begun in 2008. Although there are some tweaks, the story's contents (and its flaws) are mostly intact.
> 
> Set during and after "The Two Towers" and "Return of the King". A blend of bookverse (Théodred is 40 and blond) and movieverse (Éomer is banished), but no promises of canon accuracy. Also AU, with Éomer a widower with children; Grima being Théoden's counselor for 12 years; and more than a day or two passing between Éomer's banishment and his meeting with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Also, some fics have Théodred as a "double cousin" to Éomer and Éowyn, because his mother Elfhild was Éomund's sister. That is also the case here.
> 
> Rings and all related characters and concepts are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is NC-17 for adult themes, sex, violence, and language. Please note the dubious consent tag and don't read if that is a trigger.

Éomer wrenched his body, limbs twisting, but failed to shift the four brigands holding him as Guthwine was torn from his waist. His breath caught with each lance of pain from his battered belly and ribs. E’en through mail and leather the blows had landed hard.

He tossed his head as he was dragged into a small storeroom off the hall. No friendly faces, only the sneers of two more who had abandoned duty to lord and land to serve Grima Wormtongue. The Worm---nay, the snake---slithered in ere they closed the oaken door. Éomer's lips curled back in a snarl, wishing he'd parted that gloating white face from its specter's body.

But in truth his chance had passed years ago, when he'd first understood the depth of Grima's treachery. Since then the Worm had bored deep into Théoden's confidence. Dripped his poison into Théoden's ears, into the king's very soul. No longer was Théoden the sturdy oak Éomer and Éowyn had leant upon in their child's grief. Now he was a cliffside pine, gnarled and frail, bent and broken years ere his time.

Such was Grima's power: To turn uncle against sister-son, king against marshal. Théoden's scrawl on the parchment proclaiming Éomer a traitor was burned in Éomer's memory. Like the sight of his cousin's too-still body lying in the muck of Isen's Ford. Théodred's powerful chest barely lifting with each inhalation, wound and water and the cold foggy dawn leaving him pale as the wraith he may yet become.

At this very moment Théodred may be breathing his last. Leaving Éomer equally powerless to heal Théodred's body or avenge this most grievous blow to the heart and hopes of the Eorlingas.

And how Grima savored his victory. Lips stretched into a rictus grin as toad-yellow eyes gleamed with satisfaction the Worm would ne'er display in Théoden's presence. But here...

Éomer instinctively reared back at the approach of Grima's hand, but his captors merely gripped his limbs more tightly and held him still. Grima's mouth formed a crueler curve as bony fingers clutched at Éomer's hair, forcing Éomer's head close enough to be enveloped in mead-scented breath. Grima’s mumur seemed to shiver along Éomer's skin. "Years of work have come to fruition this day, and I intend to mark it well."

Grima drew nearer still, filling Éomer's vision 'til naught existed but that sickle-moon face. "The day will not grow much older ere I have spent myself deep within a golden child of Éomund and Théodwyn."

Éomer almost pitched forward at the shock of the words and sudden release of Grima's grip. The Worm stepped back with an indifferent air. "But I shall leave *you*, my fine marshal, to decide who it will be---you or your fair sister."

A roar of rage caught behind Éomer's clenched teeth as he lurched toward the floor, dropping to a crouch and pulling his arms tight into his chest. As the men around him stumbled and their grip slackened, he wrenched free and forward, grabbing the Worm's scrawny neck.

But in the measure of a heartbeat he knew that he must stay his hand. Éomer well remembered the day Grima had demonstrated that Théoden would not survive the death of the Worm. So instead of snapping the cretin's spine, Éomer slid around Grima's spare frame. Pressed his back into a corner and held the Worm in front of him, though in truth Grima made a poor shield. Éomer laid his face against the stringy ebon hair beside one ear and growled, "You will swear by your master's master that none shall lay a finger upon Éowyn---or the children."

Grima's hand moved with an almost languid drift, holding the men at bay. He turned his head toward Éomer, eyebrow arched. Éomer knew not whether Grima's arrogance had always lain hidden 'neath his groveling manner and counselor's robes, or whether it was new-born at the knowledge of Théodred's near-death. But it lent silk rather than steel to Grima's voice. "Do you whore yourself then, son of Éomund?"

There was only one reply possible. Éomer nodded once, but had yet to ease his grip about the pale throat. One twist...

Grima smiled, slow with triumph. "Then I shall swear it: None shall approach your sister or your spawn...until the Riddermark falls beneath the dark lord's sway."

Éomer let his hands drop to his sides. Grima's turn was swift, his backhand blow to Éomer's face stronger than expected. It took all of Éomer's will to rein in his warrior's instinct to block or turn the strike. His head jerked, heat and pain blooming upon his cheek. He resumed his waiting stance, struggling to keep all reaction from his features. He would not spice Grima's victory with acknowledgment of this insult to his person and family. The humiliation of being forced into servicing the Worm.

At Grima's beckoning, Éomer stepped to the center of the room. Grima's eyes glittered as they roamed his body, already laying claim as the Worm closed the distance between them with a quiet command. "On your knees."

For the briefest moment pride stiffened Éomer's limbs. But with a silent snarl he lowered himself to the floor, the tiles unyielding through the thick leather of his trews. He focused on the discomfort rather than thoughts of what he was about to do, or the leering faces of men he had once considered kith and kin.

He watched with no small measure of apprehension as Grima parted heavy black robes. Éomer swallowed as bone-pale fingers moved aside the thick woolen leggings and linen braies to reveal an already half-erect cock. But it seemed the rumors were wrong: Grima was formed in the size and likeness of other men, and showed no signs of pox or other disfigurement.

Éomer closed his eyes for a moment. Willed away memories years gone of the last time he'd thus taken another man's measure, tasted another man's flesh. He would not taint thoughts of Dúneald---sun-kissed skin dark against a froth-pale length of hair, stone-gray eyes hidden in deep crinkles---by placing Dúneald's shade beside Grima's too-close body.

He flinched at a touch against his lips, meeting Grima's gaze once more. The Worm simply tilted his hips forward again. "Now is not the time for coyness."

Éomer allowed his mouth to open, accepting the heated length. But he did no more than slacken his jaw. Mayhap the lack of further action would convince Grima that Éomer was untutored in the couplings of men. For certain the Worm knew not of Éomer's bond with Dúneald---Éomer's secrets would ne'er have lain hidden so long otherwise.

The House of Eorl had ne'er stood upon such uncertain ground as it did this day---Éomer would do naught to risk it further. Nor did he pretend a choked grunt at the sudden shove of Grima's member down his throat. Éomer clenched his hands upon his thighs, again schooling himself to stillness as Grima's fingers clasped his shoulders. He kept unwilling eyes upon Grima's gloating face.

"I shall never forget this vision: The defiant Third Marshal brought so low." Grima paused a moment, tilting his head. "It's fair recompense for your lack of...enthusiasm."

After another score of thrusts Éomer was suddenly free. Could not help the tension that rose as he watched the Worm drift back a step. Grima's eyes slid sharp as the rasp of nails against Éomer's skin.

"Strip, whore, for I would enjoy my prize to the fullest measure." The arrogance of Grima’s order matched the bodness of his now-rampant cock. 

Éomer winced at the shine bestowed upon the engorged length by his own spit and Grima's juices. Longed to banish the musky flavor that sullied his mouth.

He did not rise, but with swift fingers removed his vambraces and gloves, then unbuckled his breastplate. After shedding it, Éomer gathered mail, leather undertunic, and linen shirt in a double handful. Hauled all three layers off in a single movement over his head and cast the them aside. Grateful that neither clasp nor chain caught in his hair---he would gladly forgo the added scorn sure to result if he became entangled in his garments like a clumsy child.

Gooseflesh rose in the chill of almost-spring. That his nipples drew taut as well seemed a perverse mockery of arousal. He dropped reluctant hands to his trews.

Éomer gritted his teeth as he loosened the ties at either side, lowering them and his linen braies to mid-thigh. Then he stopped, straightening his back. Every measure of his exposed flesh seemed to shrink with the coolness of the air and the heat of the men's leering gazes. He shuddered at the brush of his hair against his bared back, the press of his bootheels against his buttocks.

'Twas a strain to hold his tongue and temper while so debased and displayed. But he would offer no protest. For in this appearance of submission he hoped to conceal a far more vital defiance.

From his first days as a Rohir he'd secreted in the tall length of his boots two knives, sharp and ever-ready. They'd come from Théodred, a gift from one warrior to another. Éomer had been trained in their use, but had ne’er found need to draw them in battle.

Éomer could only hope no one within this chamber realized his bid to remain armed for whatever awaited him after Grima tired of this play. There was a goodly chance of success---surely none of these cretins had e'er raised spear or sword as a member of an eored.

He jerked at the brush of a hand along his bicep, checked himself as Grima's fingers dug a warning into his flesh. He could only watch as Grima paced around him like a buyer at a horse fair. The Worm seemed in no hurry to resume his pleasures, instead content to assert his claim over Éomer's body with strokes light and firm.

Éomer swallowed without volition as Grima encircled his throat in an uncallused hand, traveling down its length until fingertips shifted to smooth across his collarbones. He bit back a gasp as his skin seemed to waken to the touch. So long had it been since another had traced the hollows and curves of his flesh. So long since Dúneald...

The sharp pull on his hair came strangely welcomed. His eyes narrowed at the sting, then he tilted his head back at the silent command. Grima loomed above him, a stark clash of black and white unmarred save by the yellow of Grima's eyes. "Now shall the high and mighty Rider be made to bear like the lowliest beast."

With a last yank that wrenched Éomer's head upon his neck Grima released him, only to plant a harsh hand between his shoulder blades. The shove forced him to set his own palms upon the tiles lest his head be bashed against them.

Éomer had only moments to brace ere Grima's hard length was forcing its way into his depths. Despite the burn and pain of the stretch, he retained enough sense to note the sudden slickness doing much to ease Grima's unwelcome flesh into his sheath. His first instinct was to clench tight, deny the invader, but again he willed all fight from his body and accepted. He would do no more, but by his own agreement he could do no less.

He refused to bow his head, but he knew that Grima spoke truth when he named Éomer whore. He could hear the word echo each time Grima thrust home, drowning out the greedy, pleased mewls issuing from the Worm's mouth, the avid murmurs of their audience. Dulling the pain of Grima's clawing at Éomer's hips as the ride hastened from canter to gallop, Grima's breaths hot upon his jaw. "So good…long have I dreamed of this, my golden one."

The only solace Éomer could find was that his own body did not betray him into rousing fully. Yet he shuddered at Grima's climax, somehow feeling as enervated as if he had been the one to spill his seed. He moved not as Grima draped across his back, the velvet of Grima's robes a soothing slide upon his flanks. He mayhap imagined the brush of lips against one shoulder.

He smothered a grunt as Grima pulled out, the withdrawal allowing fluid to seep from Éomer's sore entrance. He ignored it as best he could, drawing up his garments and fastening them with more haste than care.

When his features once more betrayed no inkling of his thoughts, Éomer glanced o’er his shoulder. Grima's expression had hardened instead of slackened with release. Éomer's fist clenched, though he knew 'twould be the height of folly to attempt another attack.

Grima's mouth once more mirrored an axe's curve. "I will leave my stamp both within *and* without, my dear marshal." With no sign of hurry he finished resettling his robes, then beckoned forth one of his henchmen. "Give him twelve stripes, one for every year I've been forced to simper and fawn over that drooling fool of a Rohan king."

Ere Éomer could react his arms were seized, stretched as he was pulled upright. The four who had dragged him to this chamber now kept him in place as their companions approached. One coiling a whip that no Eorling would e'er use upon a horse, the other rolling up a scrap of leather.

The latter grabbed Éomer's jaw, shoved the new-made cylinder 'tween Éomer's teeth. The man's own grin showed gaps and the stain of too much pipeweed. "Don't want nobody t'hear yer yowlin'."

Éomer had some warning: The men holding him gripped harder upon his limbs, and he heard the rush of air ere the whip struck. Even so, he needed the gag as a scream strangled in his throat.

He'd been lucky, all his life. His boyhood tumbles had come without hurt or injury, and while he'd shed orc blood aplenty he'd ne’er had to suffer a grievous wound in exchange.

So in truth, he was as unready as a new recruit for the fire and slice of pain along the length of his back. But ere he had time to absorb it the whip fell again, and again...

When the twelfth blow landed they released him. He sagged, settled on his knees, let the leather drop from his mouth. Braced his hands upon his thighs, only now aware of the warm trickle of blood down his back. Tried to breathe without whimpering.

Unsure of his success.

Éomer could not hold back a soft cry as a hand fisted his hair, arching his neck and back. Grima's visage wavered as Éomer fiercely clenched his eyes. Mayhap ere now, tears had fallen unknowing, mixing with the sweat upon his face. But he would not weep.

Grima's face and voice held not the triumph Éomer expected. The Worm's mien seemed...wistful, ere Grima spoke. "Thus our bargain is made. And you too shall remember this day...for as long as you live." 

He released his hold, turned away, and signaled his henchmen to open the door. "Farewell, Éomer."

Pain streaked the length of Éomer's back, robbing him of breath as he leaned toward his clothing. But the one who'd given him the leather roll stepped in front of him and snatched up his garments. "Traitors need no fancy gear."

"Leave---all of you." Gamling's command---and from Éomer's glance, the stone-set of the older man's features---hastened the exit of Grima's lackeys. Éomer could not help the relief that swept o'er him. There had been no surety that the sport would end with Grima's departure.

It seemed shame and pity mingled in Gamling's searching gaze. Éomer would have tossed his head in dismissal, but now feared the pain that would punish ill-thought movement. Grima had indeed marked him well.

Gamling gestured to someone outside the doorway. A washerwoman came in, iron of hair and expression, bearing a bucket. Gamling took it from her, bidding her depart, his features creasing. "I'm sorry, Lord Éomer, but we've been given little time to make ready for your departure." 

He lifted the bucket. "Boiled water, liberally salted. 'Tis all we can do to cleanse your wounds."

With swift steps he moved behind Éomer, who hastily snatched up the leather and once more shoved it into his mouth. Planted his hands upon the tile with grim determination to endure. He nodded but did not look back.

The fierce pain of the whipping returned, trebled. Éomer could scarce believe such animal keening originated from his own throat. But at least there would be no further blow.

After a moment Gamling settled upon one knee in front of him. "The Worm has chosen your garments---and your escort from the hall. You are granted naught else but the clothing, your horse, and the barest tack to ride him." His voice lowered. "No doubt your trail will be well observed."

Éomer struggled to gather his wits, and his will. He rose slowly on legs far less steady than they had been this morn. The hand he laid upon Gamling's forearm was not only a gesture of thanks. "Then I shall be careful of company."

Gamling shook his head, but Éomer doubted his elder was denying his words, for Gamling's mouth formed a grim line. "Grima has also commanded that none are to offer you weapons or aid, or leave Edoras for the turn of three days---upon pain of death." His eyes reflected a wealth of words that would do no good if spoken.

Éomer straightened under the knowledge that he could not look for help from within these walls. "Then be certain none are led astray by former oaths or friendships forged in older days. I'll not be the cause of any further losses."

With a nod that seemed more resignation than assent, Gamling shifted to the exit. Reached for a bundle of cloth the washerwoman had returned with. He tossed a peasant's cloak over his own shoulder, draping a coarse woolen tunic over his forearm as he gathered a linen shirt for Éomer to lift weary arms through. "At least they're clean."

Éomer snorted; a small courtesy indeed. He held his tongue as he eased his way into the first garment, sensing the material cling to his drenched skin as he worked his way in turn into the tunic. "How bad is it?"

"'Twould be better salved and wrapped---and stitched." Gamling held his gaze. "Grima has done you no favors, Éomer, to send you out in this state."

"The only action of the Worm's that would find favor with me is if he fell upon the point of my sword." Éomer grimaced as he shrugged into the cloak, his hand automatically falling to his waist and missing the feel of Guthwine sure within his grip. 

He stepped forward with Gamling, but paused at the threshold. "I leave my sister, prince, and king to your care." He swallowed. "And the children---"

"They'll not be forced from Aldburg, I swear it." Gamling nodded, glanced at the crowd gathering within the hall. "A messenger departed ere Wormtongue's decree, to warn your kin there of the danger---and how any friendly face might hide a traitor's blade."

"Or worse." Éomer lifted his head, squared his shoulders---hiding the wave of pain that rippled through his frame---and strode out of the storeroom and into the hall he may be seeing for the last time.

He looked not at the faces, drawn and wan, that lined his path to the door. ‘Twas a mercy Éowyn was elsewhere, not witness to her brother's debasement and departure.

The men who stepped to his side were too familiar, but Éomer ignored them as well and made his way out of Meduseld with what dignity he could.

At least the cretins did not try to throw him down the stone stairs. Éomer made it safely to the packed earth around the hall, to where Firefoot pranced and snorted. Already Éomer was murmuring reassurances to his restless stallion, who with rolling eye and flaring nostrils seemed to already detect the scent of blood. A saddle and halter as bare and plain as Éomer's new attire awaited his hand.

With teeth gritted against the fresh surge of agony, Éomer hauled his battered body onto Firefoot's back. With the press of legs he turned Firefoot toward the gate. There were more eyes, more faces, lining either side of the street along his route.

At first there was nary a movement, nary a sound save the steady rush of the water in its channel and the clop of Firefoot's hooves as the gray walked through the streets.

Nearer to the gate the people were shifting and swaying, muttering and raising arms and heads in a restless dance. Éomer understood it not, lifted a hand to end the display when an object flew at him from the side. By instinct he caught it, on some level still certain his people would not do him harm.

As he slung the object on the saddle he realized it was two bulging waterskins, tied together with a length of rope.

The second volley was more readily caught: This time a double measure of oats, from the weight and scent of the dust that rose from the rough-woven bags. The third and final offering was again two sacks strung together, but he had neither the time nor the leisure to wonder what they contained.

Tears threatened again, but this time of gratitude for the valor of the Eorlingas that showed itself in the simplest of ways. But it seemed his people were not yet done defying the Worm.

For as Éomer passed through the gates, the pastures just beyond the fortifications filled with horses. Riderless---for none would, or should, seek death at his side---but grazing or ambling about without keeper or restraint.

As Firefoot merged with his fellow equines, Éomer ignored his wounds and tucked close to his mount's neck. Tried to blend with the rest of the herd. He gave a series of short, sharp whistles, touching his heels to Firefoot's flanks at the same time.

The horses of the Rohirrim knew the signal and obeyed it, running away in all directions, the instinct of generations bringing along the rest of their kind.

And thus Éomer disappeared from Edoras without sight or trail to betray in which direction his path led.

But he rode with the faintest of hopes in his heart.

************************************************************  
************************************************************

Faramir oft dreamed of places few men had ever seen. Of people who once were, still are, or may yet be. But of all the wonders and horrors his sleeping mind had conjured, none had stirred his heart as this vision.

At first a white horse galloped alone across an endless expanse of new grass. But now a warrior upon a gray steed could be seen, the sun seeming to catch sparks against the horse's ebon hooves. The man was without doubt a member of the Rohirrim: Tall and strong, clad in leather and mail, the wild locks of his blond hair streaming behind him much as his mount's unbraided mane.

Like the sun itself the warrior's spirit shone, concealing his features from Faramir's yearning gaze.

But darkness soon encroached upon this golden dream. Faramir could not contain the gasp upon his lips as a cloud---roiling and black as the darkest corner of men's hearts---began to fill the sky.

The shadow it cast swiftly overtook horse and rider. As the darkness claimed the Rohir, Faramir could hear sinister laughter and a pain-filled scream---

"No!" Faramir lurched up, reaching out to snatch the warrior from the evil that would smother his bright spirit.

A breath, a blink, and Faramir was again aware that he rested upon the floor of his chamber behind Henneth Annûn, the indifferent rock walls absorbing his cry. He shrugged out of his bedroll, rolling to his feet to pace with sure need but uncertain gait.

The message seemed clear: Rohan was poised to be subsumed by Sauron's dark power. But why had Faramir been given this vision? Rohan and Gondor were still joined, yea, but by the most tenuous of threads. Hardship and travail beset both valiant peoples, and each had little time or thought to spare for the other's troubles.

Besides, it was Boromir who had been chosen for the great quest. Denethor had not bothered to conceal his low opinion of his younger offspring's worth. So Faramir knew that by his father's measure he was counted a simple ranger and lesser son, unworthy of fell deeds. What could he do?

"Make haste to Amon Anwar, for Rohan's future and Gondor's hope." The voice sounding within Faramir's thoughts was of silver and gold, high sun and full moon, somehow strangely familiar yet completely unknown.

And he could do naught but obey. He ended both his restless steps and his ponderings, thoughts shifting to the necessary preparations.

Faramir would not fail the bright warrior of his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Éomer knew not what was driving him to Halifirien, the site of the ancient pledge binding Gondor and the Riddermark. But once Firefoot and he were out of sight of Edoras they turned east, traveling straight across the Eastfolde and Fenmarch, parallel to the Great West Road. Careful not to approach hamlet or village. Though as he passed near Aldburg his heart ached at the thought of the children so very close, but beyond his reach.

Mayhap it was the still-fresh memory of Boromir's visit, and the aid the Eorlingas had offered the Gondorian on his strange quest for a riddle's unraveling. Or it could be that Éomer had some vague notion of turning the learned minds of their closest allies to seeking a cure for Théoden's ailment. Of finding someone strong or skilled enough to banish the darkness from Edoras, as Éomer had failed so utterly to do.

Luck favored him thus far. The scattering of horses at Edoras had well masked his trail. Neither man nor foul beast seemed to follow in his steps. But to be safe he'd eased Firefoot into hollow or cleft, or beneath the level of the winter-dry stalks of tall grass, whene'er they stopped for food and rest.

But now within the gloaming of Firien Wood, Éomer knew his fortunes had turned. Firefoot walked beside the Mering Stream, the rushing water claiming a narrow swath of clear land to either side. But Éomer was sagging in the saddle, the exhaustion and pain of the last days leaving him far too unwary in uncertain territory.

He'd slipped one of the hard-bought knives from his boot, keeping the blade in one hand. A sturdy branch was gripped in the other, as Éomer guided Firefoot by legs and voice. Straining to hear above the murmur of water and the voices of the Whispering Wood.

Instinct older than his warrior training tensed his limbs, raised the hairs on his nape. Firefoot must also have sensed their unwanted company: The gray's snorts and laid-back ears were familiar signs of disquiet.

There! The glint of eyes in a patch of shadow. Éomer straightened, ignored the pain in his back and fatigue in his body as he turned his head, seeking further assailants.

A large shape broke from the trees, lumbered into Firefoot's path. A bear, but more of Fangorn than Firien. Far too large to be fashioned by pure nature, it could well be part warg. Its eyes flared red, a sound of anger or hunger rumbling in its throat. As the creature rose upon its hind legs, Éomer could only hope his skill was not far diminished by his weakened state.

He wished for bow or spear, but readied the weapons he had to hand. Éomer could sense Firefoot gathering himself. With a quiet murmur and press of knee he urged the stallion back, step by careful step. Hoping that the bear would in turn abandon them to seek smaller prey.

But ‘twas not to be. The beast dropped and surged forth, closing the distance between them in mighty bounds. Éomer sent Firefoot to meet the bear, hoping to strike a blow ere it could use teeth or claws against them.

Dropping hard in the saddle and shouting a command he checked Firefoot just short of the beast. Urged the stallion to the right, swinging the branch into the bear's face while arching to stab his knife into the top of the creature's spine.

It almost worked. At the last moment the bear lurched and Éomer's knife sank into dense muscle at the top of one shoulder. His grip on the hilt jerked him half out of the saddle---he let his feet slip from the stirrups as Firefoot surged past. Nearly sobbed at the wrench and the burn of his wounds as he released the knife and stumbled to find firm footing on the mist-drenched ground.

With an enraged roar the bear once more rose to its full height. Éomer swung the branch again, letting the creature's claws scrabble against it as he dodged to the other side and behind. He launched himself upon the creature's back, needing both hands to yank the knife from its grisly sheath for another strike. But this time the point found its target.

The bear gave up its life with a last bellow, but in its death throes found a measure of revenge. Éomer had no time to react as the creature toppled back, slamming him to the earth under the beast's weight.

He knew no more.

************************************************************

Faramir drew rein as soon as he caught sight of the horse. He'd as much followed his instincts as the sounds of animal rage that led him through the trees to Mering Stream.

He patted the neck of his own mount as he scanned the area, then slid from the saddle. He'd ridden hard to this meeting---he could only hope that he was not too late. His hasty excuses and substantial collection of gear had roused suspicion in his men, but he would not allow any to accompany him. For he'd known not how long he'd search for the golden warrior of his dream. And while Faramir was prepared to face the wrath of father and steward for dereliction of duty, he would not include others in his shame, no matter how eagerly they offered aid.

Faramir would never of his own will bring the scorn of Denethor upon another, for he well knew its sting. But he was glad for the assurance that his vision held truth.

For the gray seemed conjured to life from his imaginings. The animal wore a halter rather than a bridle, but it was clear no rope or bit was needed to keep the horse at its master's side. The wary stance, the ears laid back in warning, the way the gray shifted to block Faramir's view of the bodies behind...it all spoke of training and devotion that were the hallmarks of a Rohir's bond with his steed.

"Easy now," he soothed, keeping hands still and voice soft as he edged nearer. "Upon my honor, I'll do your Rider no harm."

Mayhap it was a trick of the fading light, but Faramir would swear the horse's dark eyes showed consideration, reckoning far beyond a beast's usual ken. "I promise," he continued. "I wish only to aid you both."

After a moment the gray's ears flicked forward and its head lowered. With a whicker that seemed to sound concern, the horse moved to allow Faramir close.

Man and bear formed a bizarre sprawl upon the bank. With due caution, Faramir gripped two of the beast's limbs to drag off the carcass. A grunt of frustration passed Faramir's lips as the movement cut short. He dropped to his knees, shoved his hands under the bear's side to find purchase in the thick fur. It was still warm, but Faramir knew not whether it was the beast's own heat or wrought from the closeness of bear and man.

He braced himself and heaved, rolling the carcass off the Rohir and away from the water. A knife hilt bobbed in silhouette as the creature settled in its new resting place. Faramir took a moment to pull forth and wipe the blade; it would be folly to abandon a weapon in such perilous surroundings.

Then he shifted to look at the man. In the approach of night the face was only a pale blur, the stranger's clothes a dark spread marked with a darker stain of blood. With hopeful fingers Faramir stroked aside a few tangled strands of hair to reach the skin of the man's neck. The pulse beat strong beneath his touch, but the flesh radiated a warning heat.

There was little time to waste. Faramir looked to the gray, still standing sentinel at its master's side. A flush rose in his cheeks for the foolishness of addressing the animal directly. "It is not safe here. We must go."

Yet again the steed proved itself far more than its Gondorian counterpart. For the horse stepped forward, and without prompting sank to its knees in the damp soil. Faramir scooped up the Rohir, but froze at a pained moan.

Faramir shifted one hand beneath the man's cloak, finding a tunic and shirt also damp, and the shirt somehow stuck to the man's back. He slid his fingers underneath the hem, seeking.

And drew back with greater haste. His mouth set in a grim line as he lifted the still form once more. This time careful to turn the man over so no pressure rested against the wounded back. Faramir could only hope that the man's care was not beyond his healing skills, and that no further injuries existed.

He slung the limp body over the gray's saddle, held steady as the horse rose to standing. Then Faramir retrieved his own mount and affixed the reins to the gray's stirrup.

With one hand on the horse and another on the man, Faramir stepped forward, his mind tracing the trail to his destination, calculating time and distance and what would need to be done.

************************************************************

Faramir silently thanked whoever had left this cave both well-stocked and well-concealed. The bush-shrouded opening in base of Amon Anwar was not obvious to the untrained eye, and the caves had been fashioned as a traveler's rest.

He'd made liberal use of the wood and kindling, the pots and bowls and stream of water that splashed through a small niche at the very back. The horses had been untacked and wiped down, and were currently in a larger cave sharing water and a measure of the fodder Faramir had found hanging from the Rohir's saddle.

Now he was ready to deal with the man himself. Faramir lifted a steaming pot from the fire, poured a measure into a basin containing water that had already cooked and cooled.

He sank to his knees, maneuvering the bowl over the unconscious Rohir's back. Faramir had divested the man of boots, cloak, and tunic. In doing so he'd also uncovered a mystery. For said boots, along with the woolen stockings and leather trews that the man still wore, gave evidence of fine workmanship and quality material. But the coarse cloak and tunic---like the linen shirt that was currently stuck to the wounds on the Rohir's back---looked better suited to a peasant or tinker.

The same discrepancy could be found in the man's mount: The stallion was obviously of the highest order, but the tack barely serviceable and obviously hard-used.

With a shake of the head Faramir focused on the task set him. The task, not the man. But he could not deny that beneath the lines of strain and mud-caked hair, the blond was both quite handsome and fairly young. A strong jaw was softened by a short beard, and thick dark lashes covered the shadows painted by fatigue under closed lids.

Faramir's lips compressed as he ran his gaze over the blood-streaked shirt. It needed to be soaked ere it could be pulled free of the wounds, lest the removal cause even more damage. He laid a hand on one strong shoulder---

And was not entirely surprised to find his wrist caught in a firm grip. He in turn twisted his hand to grasp the blond's forearm, preventing the man from completing the roll and landing on his injuries. For a moment Faramir could only blink, stunned by the glitter of eyes that were near-black in the glow from the fire. What shade would be revealed in the light of day? He hastily found his voice. "Peace, friend."

The Rohir's keen gaze seemed to sweep over and through Faramir at a glance, absorbing all he was in that instant. "Where is my horse? What is this place? Who are you?" He spoke Westron with only a hint of the Rohirric lilt, in a manner that while not arrogant indicated the man was used to commanding answers---and receiving them.

"Your horse is with mine, in a larger cave that forms part of this sanctuary at the base of Amon Anwar, what your people call Halifirien. I am Faramir, son of Denethor, a ranger of Ithilien." Faramir felt as though his soul as well as his words were measured for a long moment. Then the man's body relaxed as Faramir's wrist was released.

"Well met, Faramir. I am Éomer, son of Éomund, Third---" A spasm clenched Éomer's features. "I *was* Third Marshal of the Riddermark." 

Éomer's chin lifted in a kind of defiant pride. "You should know that I am labeled traitor by Théoden King, banished from the Mark. To aid me is to commit treason against the realm...death is the punishment."

Faramir returned his hand to Éomer's shoulder. He could not help the faint smile that found its way to his lips. Such blunt honesty was a rare experience in Gondor---he found it refreshing in one who had much to gain by deceit. "It is fortunate then, that I am not bound by such decrees." 

He shrugged. "It is to Gondor's steward that I must answer, not Rohan's king."

Éomer snorted, and Faramir caught a slight twitch of the full lips. "True enough," Éomer acknowledged with a nod. "Then you have my thanks for whatever help you are willing to offer."

Faramir returned the gesture, then settled back to regard his now-conscious companion, in particular the mud-clogged hair now falling around Éomer's shoulders. "In truth, Éomer, now that you have wakened it would be better to cleanse your hair ere removing your shirt---further dirt in the wounds will not speed your healing."

A slow nod was the response. Faramir wondered what caused the...longing to overtake Éomer's tone and features as the man followed up the gesture with a murmur. "Aye, to once more be clean."

************************************************************

Éomer sighed as gentle fingers worked their way through his now-mud-free hair. He closed his eyes, the meager torchlight in this small niche enticing him with thoughts of sleep. He regretted that Faramir had ended the tale of their meeting and journey here, for he feared without distraction he might succumb to the fatigue that seemed to have settled in his bones.

Though in truth he should not be so...calm in this moment. Éomer was not a man at ease with strangers---Grima had surely taught the Eorlingas the cost of misplaced trust---and yet he was not beset by the wariness he'd expect in such uncertain circumstances.

‘Twas strange indeed to be by his own will seated upon a stone with naught but a scrap of cloth preserving his modesty ‘neath the linen shirt that draped him to mid-thigh. But he could find no flaw in Faramir's reasoning: Aye, 'twould be better to take the opportunity to wash body and garments, and allow the latter to dry overnight in front of the fire while he took his rest wrapped in blankets provided by his host.

What Éomer could not explain was the swiftness with which he agreed to Faramir's plan. How he'd entrusted himself to the ranger's tending. Mayhap because Faramir had had ample opportunity to cause Éomer harm ere now, while Éomer lay stunned beneath the bear. And he acknowledged a strong need to have the traces of Grima's seed cleansed from his body, though he knew naught would remove the memory of what he had done.

Or mayhap it was Faramir himself. The brother of Boromir had not the bold spirit of that questing knight, but Éomer did not find Faramir lacking in any measure. From the careful way Faramir chose his words, this son of Gondor's steward seemed to be of a more contemplative nature, yet he possessed an ease of manner all his own. And Éomer was unused to finding such gentleness of touch in a warrior of greater age and experience.

Éomer guessed Faramir to be some years his elder. From what he could tell by fire- and torchlight Faramir was of fine features and strong build, with hair near the shade of the dancing flames. He started to turn his head to further regard his companion, but the action was met with a warning murmur as he was urged by a touch upon his shoulder to lean forward. Éomer sputtered as the sodden mass of his hair was flipped into his face.

As he used a cloth to begin to sop the dripping locks he flinched as more water, though somewhat warm, began to soak his shirt. He sought some distraction. "What brings another steward's son to the Riddermark? Are you also passing through on your way to seek a riddle's answer in some distant realm?"

Faramir stilled behind him. "You have met Boromir?"

Éomer could hear the wary hope in the question. He sorrowed that the news he had was not better. "The elder son of Gondor's steward did indeed travel our plains. We lent him a worthy steed to replace his own lamed mount, and copied for him maps from ancient days."

Despite the pain, he shifted on the stone to regard Faramir in the torchlight. "The horse returned to us wild-eyed and riderless, but with no sign to indicate the cause of their parting." 

He rested a sympathetic hand upon the arm Faramir had bent to continue pouring. No doubt Faramir shuttled ‘tween despair and desperate wish. Éomer remembered well how he felt as he searched the Fords for Théodred. He had told himself his cousin was unharmed...’til he held sad proof of the opposite in his hands.

Did Théodred still battle Death? Or had his proud cousin succumbed to wounds grievous and maleficent? He had not yet finished his ruminations ere Faramir pressed Éomer's head forward again and resumed the drenching.

He shivered in the damp chill of this shadowed niche as the water spilt down to the hem and pooled upon the stone where he sat. The cave lent a hollow quality to the splash of more water filling the basin, those sounds louder counterparts to the hiss of the torches and trickle of water coming from and returning to the rock in a steady flow.

Faramir crouched near Éomer's waist. "I'll attempt to pull your shirt from the wounds now." 

Éomer could feel the material bunch, the faintest pressure from Faramir's knuckles as cool air found its way under the rising linen. He quickly adjusted the separate cloth spread over his manhood, a flush rising in his face as he realized his body was not unaware of Faramir's closeness---or comeliness. But as Boromir had not been one to seek a warrior's embrace, Éomer had no wish to embarrass himself or Faramir with an unseemly and unwelcome display.

'Twas perhaps some consolation that the linen did not part all that easily from the stripes laid by Grima's men, for the discomfort did much to diminish Éomer's ardor. He lifted his arms to shoulder height to let Faramir pull the shirt free from his torso, dropping his hands quickly to his lap.

Faramir seemed to take no notice of Éomer's actions, instead focusing on pouring steaming water from a kettle to the empty basin. Éomer could not help admiring the elegance of the man's hands as they worked to soak and soap a washcloth. Faramir looked over. "If you will allow me to perform your ablutions, you will come faster to the finish and the fire."

Éomer nodded and simply shifted his limbs as Faramir indicated, the bracing stroke of rough cloth against his skin and the chill of the air waking him completely. ‘Til he felt the sting of soap within the scratches and gouges, he'd forgotten the marks Grima had left upon his hips.

Faramir's pause and the sudden tension in broad shoulders showed that the man read the story of Éomer's recent activities in these reminders. 

Éomer swallowed, puzzled at the sudden clench of his innards at knowing this near-stranger had discovered his shame.

But so be it. Éomer may be a whore but he was no coward. He tilted Faramir's chin until their gazes met. "To preserve my sister's virtue I surrendered my own, and my rider did not spare the spurs."

Whatever reaction Éomer expected, 'twas not the clasp of Faramir's hand about his wrist. "That seems a most necessary bargain," was all Faramir said ere his head dropped and he continued his ministrations.

Éomer knew not what to reply. Found himself strangely docile as most of his form was bathed and rinsed. He then was assisted to standing and left alone to finish his private cleansing while Faramir regarded the torches with a less than subtle fascination.

When he had finished and wrapped fresh linen about his waist he was blotted dry, with great care taken to his wounded back. Glad of Faramir's arm to aid his own stumblings, the strain of the last days suddenly crashed upon him. He welcomed their return to the fire, and with little coaxing stretched out upon his belly on a blanket close to the flames.

"Luck is with you, horselord, for while there is some heat to your skin you show no signs of putrefaction." Faramir's fingers began to stroke some greasy substance onto Éomer's back, a healing salve by the scent and sharp burn along the wounded flesh.

A grunt was all Éomer offered in reply, his brow furrowing. "You ne’er gave answer to my query, ranger: What brings you to the woods surrounding Halifirien? Do you seek to light the beacon?"

Fire and water were the only sounds for some moments, as Faramir continued painting the whipmarks. But he finally laid aside the jar of salve and wiped his fingers. A hand upon Éomer's shoulder urged him to shift to one side. Faramir this time sought Éomer's gaze, his features flickering bright and dark by fire's light. "Nay, it was you who called me here."

This time the shiver that rippled Éomer's flesh had naught to do with cold. He stared at Faramir's flame-tinged visage, trying to see behind the shadowed eyes to the truth of the words and the man. For those words spoke of eldritch happenings that Éomer had long learned to hate and yea, fear. Fear for their power and his own inability to thwart the dark enchantments that had descended upon his beloved land. "How?" 

Faramir's chin lifted, his eyes steady. "I dreamed of a spreading shadow engulfing a Rider of Rohan. I hoped to save the warrior from this dark fate, and heard a voice urging me here. I obeyed it."

Strange tale indeed. Éomer's first instinct was to put himself far from the taint of sorcery. And yet...the face awaiting his judgment spoke to him of honesty, of...innocence. And by whatever means Faramir was summoned, his arrival and succoring of Éomer were acts of his own will. Éomer was not so blinded by self-pride to think he would have easily survived, wounded and weakened and utterly alone.

In truth, Éomer could not find it within himself to see Faramir as less than a friend. He again laid a hand upon Faramir's arm. "Then I am fortunate indeed that you heeded the call."


	3. Chapter 3

Warrior training ever held true. Faramir came awake in an instant and half-rose, hand closing about his sword hilt ere he'd blinked the sleep from his eyes.

But it was not an intruder that had roused him. At a soft moan his gaze dropped to a barely visible Éomer, watching a violent shiver rack the tall frame curled up on one side like a babe in the cradle.

The fire at Éomer's back had subsided to a flicker, and the chill and dark of the cave bespoke the bleakest measure of the night. Faramir stood and swiftly crossed to crouch where the wall shaped a crude hearth, stirring the embers back to life and adding more wood.

He pivoted on the balls of his feet to regard Éomer in the bright blaze. Faramir knew how deeply Éomer still slept, exhaustion and the tisane Faramir had prepared combining to hold Éomer in the land of dreams.

It was another sign of Éomer's trust, that he'd recognized the scent of the brew and drank it anyway. The herbs built strength and hastened healing, but came at the price of deep slumber. He'd succumbed quickly, insensible through Faramir's bandaging of his back.

As well as Faramir's treatment of the wounds on Éomer's hips. Minor they may have been, but Faramir refused to allow the golden skin to bear untreated those marks of ill-usage.

He had taken care to preserve Éomer's modesty, lowering first one side of the linen wrap about Éomer's waist, then the other, covering the small hurts with healing salve. But it had been a struggle not to yield to temptation. To explore the muscles of torso and thigh, to discover what lay beneath the cloth covering Éomer's quiescent manhood. Yea, even as Faramir chided himself his fingertips had lingered, learning the texture of Éomer's skin.

Faramir was not one to oft indulge in pleasures of the flesh. He still yearned for his father's approval, enough to rarely risk Denethor's discovery of the true nature of his younger son's desires.

Boromir had kept his brother's secret, despite not understanding how Faramir could prefer masculine planes to feminine curves. Such was the bond between the siblings that Boromir had upon occasion accompanied Faramir to a tavern on the lower levels, only to have Faramir steal away while Boromir downed ale and passed his time in gaming or idle conversation. Waiting for his brother to reappear for the long climb back to the house of the Steward.

And yet...Faramir found himself wanting to once more run his hand along Éomer's skin, to tangle his fingers in the unruly gilt mane that spilled over blanket and broad shoulders. To ask if Éomer had ever accepted a rider of his own will, or desired a fellow stallion...

But Faramir knew he was drawn by more than a strong form and handsome features. Éomer, even on such brief acquaintance, had impressed him as a man of honor and honesty. He seemed to be someone Faramir could take his ease with, *be* at ease with...be himself with.

Faramir snorted and shook his head at such fanciful thoughts. Simply because he'd dreamed of this golden warrior did not mean they shared any destiny beyond the bandaging of wounds and sharing of the fire. There had surely been no great sign that Éomer was the mate of his soul, his heart's partner.

And yet...

Éomer moaned and shivered again, snapping Faramir out of his musings. Éomer had at some point untucked his covering---likely overwarm from his body's efforts to repair itself---and now stirred restlessly, brow creasing as disjointed mutterings fell from his lips.

Faramir slipped around Éomer's form, rested a hand upon the broad brow. The hint of fevered heat had faded, and Faramir could not help smile when Éomer seemed to ease under his touch.

Until another shiver shook him. Faramir did not consider near as long as he should have ere he was dragging his own blankets over to where Éomer lay. He spread one out to rest upon, then drew the rest over both Éomer and himself as he settled on his side facing the curled-up blond, Éomer now just a silhouette limned by the fire's light.

He knew not what to think when Éomer stretched out and rolled forward, shifting Faramir to his back and draping across him with a sigh. It seemed Éomer had not wakened with the action, his body now relaxed in a boneless sprawl.

Faramir was very much aware of the tickle of Éomer's hair under his chin, of the strong arms wrapped snugly around him, the long length of leg now bent and tucked between his thighs. His hands wavered in the air a moment until with a mental shrug he slid them under the blankets and gently clasped Éomer's shoulder and haunch.

It was not the most defensible of positions, half-pinned under a sleeping horselord. But Faramir knew he could trust their steeds to give fair warning of danger. And it was too late at night after too long a journey for Faramir to deny himself the closeness they both seemed to crave.

So with a surreptitious brush of lips to the top of Éomer's head, Faramir once more settled into sleep.

************************************************************

Éomer woke to an unexpected embrace. He'd already learned the folly of ill-thought movement, so with due caution he lifted his head from its resting place against a tunic-clad chest.

Faramir lay beneath him, still asleep. No sunlight breached the cave to tell Éomer the night had passed, but he guessed 'twas long after dawn. The fire still burned, but low, idly consuming the wood left like a dog gnawing an old bone.

Weakness and the rising heat of previous days seemed to have subsided; Éomer knew 'twas thanks to the ranger's care. That this morn Éomer was spared the wound fever that stole strength and the very flesh from a man's bones, that the skin of his back was not still raw and gaping, was more than he could have hoped for when he fled Edoras.

For a moment his head sank down again as all his cares and fears washed o'er him like a summer squall, fierce and drenching. How did Théodred fare? His children? Had Théoden King succumbed further to the shadow, and did the old man drag Éowyn down with him into the dark?

Éomer's jaw clenched as he struggled to push aside these thoughts. They served no purpose, here and now. He would have no answers 'til he returned, and he could not return ere he was healed enough to defend himself from the dark creatures that attacked the Eorlingas and their steeds, that threatened to drain the very lifeblood of the Mark.

With a swallow Éomer lifted his head again, now noting that he was a full participant in the press of bodies and tangling of limbs. His hands rested along Faramir's sides, one leg thrown o'er Faramir's hip and thigh as if to hold the man there for Éomer's exploration.

The slightest shift sent a flush blazing across Éomer's cheeks. It seemed his manhood had decided to rise as well, and not only from the passage of night. For Éomer's eyes feasted upon Faramir's handsome visage even as his body reveled in the press of strength to strength. Not since Éomer had lost Dúneald had he felt such desire.

But more so his spirit was enticed. For Faramir to ride dangerous leagues alone to save a stranger from an unknown peril showed rare courage. And his care of Éomer revealed sensitivity and compassion. Mayhap great enough to o'erlook the stain of Éomer's bargain with the Worm. How Éomer longed for such a companion of heart and hand...

Éomer began to ease himself from Faramir's warmth. He would not risk diminishing Faramir's estimation of him with advances that he doubted the other man would appreciate. He had no notion of what stirred Faramir's passions...and firmly told himself that such matters should concern him not.

But he could not help a sigh at a wish to learn all there was to Faramir. To have the time and peace for such wondrous education.

The sudden clench of hands about his shoulder and still-crooked knee gave Éomer pause. He sought Faramir's eyes---what color were they? the fire offered little clue---but had no chance to catch them ere Éomer was hastily released. His wince was more of disappointment than pain as Faramir scrambled out from underneath him, leaving Éomer braced on his forearms alone beneath the blankets. "Is aught amiss?"

"No---no, not that I am aware," Faramir replied as he seemed to set his feet more firmly upon the stone. "I was...startled by your expression. What were your thoughts?"

Éomer could hardly relate his likely-unwelcome interest, so he focused upon the ponderings of earlier. "My wife, Dúneara, passed the winter ere this, leaving me four children to raise." He paused. "I wondered how they might be taking the news their father is banished and branded traitor by our king...my uncle."

"A cruel twist, indeed." Faramir's brow creased. "Do you need to send word to them? Have you reason to fear for them?"

Éomer shook his head, touched by Faramir's concern. "Nay, my wife's kin have been warned to take care, and men whose loyalty is unquestioned have pledged their swords to the children's safety."

He shrugged, grimaced at the streak of pain along his back. "They dwell in Aldburg, not Edoras." Éomer did not mention that he kept the children away from Meduseld against the expressed wishes of prince and king. He wondered now if Grima had made use of that defiance in the year and more since Dúneara's death. Had worked that fissure in the familial bonds until they broke completely with Théoden King's casting off of his sister-son.

It saddened Éomer more than he could say, if it be so.

For a moment it seemed Faramir might approach as his hand reached forth, but instead he grabbed his sword belt and strapped it to his waist. "I will heat water, then go to seek wood and game among the trees." He finally met Éomer's gaze. "The meat will strengthen your blood."

Éomer saw the man's discomfort and wondered if they might recover their accord of yestereve. "If you would desire to break your fast, you will find bread and dried apples among my supplies---and tubers to add to the gains of your hunt."

He thought that Faramir's gaze sharpened at "desire", but could not swear to the impression in the uncertain light of the cave. "Do you go out on foot or astride?" If the former he'd attempt to groom Faramir's mount while he tended Firefoot.

His intent must have been apparent, for Faramir's eyes narrowed ere he picked up an empty pot. "Afoot. But I'd ask you to remain abed 'til I return. You need to stretch stiff limbs, but I would first reapply the salve to your back. The skin must be kept supple lest you tear the wounds open anew."

Éomer could feel his flush returning at the brush of Faramir's gaze o'er his shoulders, bare above the blanket. He chided himself for reacting like an untouched maiden; surely Faramir's interest was that of a healer, and naught else. He nodded again. "I shall await your return."

Faramir's sudden smile was most pleasing. "I have heard tales of the stubbornness of horselords, but I find I must discredit them. Or have I had the luck to stumble across the most reasonable of your lot?"

The sharp bark of laughter came unbidden. "I fear I must warn you that a docile Eorling is a creature that does not linger long in company." Éomer grinned. "Enjoy this rare glimpse, for 'twill like as not be gone ere you have time to marvel at it."

************************************************************

Faramir cursed himself as he slid from tree to tree, careful to leave no sign of his passing. He shifted the last load of wood in his arms, the brace of rabbits strung on one branch swaying with his movement.

He could only hope his sullen delay did not end in peril for both himself and Éomer. When he'd wakened with Éomer in his arms, his first instinct had been to haul Éomer forward and claim that bow-curved mouth with his own.

It was fortunate he'd snapped to his senses and put safe distance between himself and catastrophe. Most fortunate, given Éomer's later revelation.

A wife, already lost. Children. Faramir shook his head, banishing the image of Éomer with some unseen blonde, Éomer's powerful hands buried in flaxen locks.

The crush of disappointment had driven Faramir from the cave. He did not understand the depth of his reaction---he'd not known Éomer for even the turn of a day. Yet he could not seem to reconcile within himself the knowledge that the golden warrior would never be his.

So he'd lingered overlong in his gathering. The sun had climbed to its apex and begun its descent, and still Faramir had wandered, occasionally returning to pile wood at a safe spot near the hidden mouth of the cave.

Only luck had preserved him. He'd been leaning against a wide tree trunk, lifting his bundle after re-securing the string holding the second snared rabbit, when the sounds and stench of orcs had reached him. He'd frozen, thanking the Valar that he'd been downwind as he listened to their guttural mutterings. They'd taken shelter from the light of day in a deep cleft cut in the earth that was home to a grove of pines and other trees. No doubt keeping to the shadows until sunset freed them to roam once more.

Faramir knew a bit of the dark speech---every trained warrior did, another weapon in their battle against the foul creatures---and had tensed further at the mentions of "strawhead" and "prize".

Like as not they sought Éomer. Faramir had vowed in that moment that they would never capture the wounded horselord. He had heard too many tales of what the vile beasts did to prisoners.

He'd been granted an opportunity to escape when a fight broke out amongst the restless orcs. Using the shouts and crash of brush as cover, he'd slipped away.

The first change Faramir noticed when he approached the cave was that his pile of deadfall had disappeared. His mouth tightened as he shifted his burden to one arm, drawing his sword and sliding around the bushes that hid the opening.

He passed through the small antechamber at the beginning of the system without incident. In the second cave he finally relaxed and sheathed his sword. His mount whickered a greeting, while even in the dimness he'd swear the gray stallion regarded him with a less than favored eye.

The horses had obviously been tended, and seemed at ease as they watched Faramir go by.

Would that he felt such equanimity. He strode into the main room, his eyes immediately drawn to a golden mane shining in firelight. Éomer was crouched by the hearth, one hand gripping his knife, the other resting upon the unlit end of a brand resting in the flames.

He'd dressed in trews and boots, but left his torso bare under his cloak but for the linen wrapped around it. Faramir knew not whether it was the pain of dressing that kept Éomer shirtless, or some sop to Éomer's intent to await Faramir's return.

It mattered not. Faramir welcomed the burn of irritation. "You were correct: It seems that your compliance did not last to evenfall."

"At least you had fair warning. I was not so prepared for a ranger's simple hunt to take half the day." The glitter of Éomer's eyes did not seem entirely born of the flames. "You were gone so long I ventured forth to confirm your safety, but returned when I found the offerings secreted nearby."

"You left the cave?" That growl could not have come from Faramir's throat. He was a man of intelligence and circumspection, ever considering his actions and weighing his reactions on scale and balance.

But reason seemed to flee as Faramir's fear twisted into fury. He could envision so clearly what could have happened, if the orcs had chosen a closer resting place, if they'd seen the sun flash bright upon the Rider's hair.

Éomer would not, could not have held them off for long, alone and wounded and so poorly armed. Yea, Éomer was trained and blooded and experienced in battle. And he would have fought hard and well---but to no avail. In the end he would have been overwhelmed by the sheer number of orcs arrayed against him. Been killed or dragged off into horrors unspeakable long ere Faramir returned to an empty cave and shattered heart.

In that moment Faramir forgot that Éomer and he had shared only a brief time together. Forgot that naught had happened, that the orcs were far from the cave and Éomer safe. Forgot that the wild rage flaring through him was born of wilder imaginings. He knew only that his golden warrior could have been lost forever...

Faramir knew not what he intended when he dropped his burden and launched toward Éomer. But a rush of feeling overtook him when Éomer in turn released both weapons and rose to meet him.

His fingers flung back the cloak and latched onto Éomer's shoulders, warm skin and dense muscles filling his hands. Mayhap Faramir thought to shake some sense into the stubborn horselord, or to chastise him for his folly. But he craved so much more. Burned to force Éomer to the rocky ground, to claim him in a manner so unrelenting and embrace so strong they would never, could never part.

But ere he could move Éomer in turn was upon him, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a snarl, Faramir's hair wound tight in ungentle fists.

Then Éomer's lips were upon his and the world stopped.

***************

For a long moment naught existed for Éomer but this kiss, angry clash mellowed to a merging of selves soul-deep. Éomer's anger had given way to more tender feelings, hinted at in the short time he had known the man but now sprung full-blown. Faramir's strength and warmth and scent surrounding him, the taste of Faramir absorbed into his very essence as he explored the sweetness of Faramir's mouth, their breaths mingling.

Faramir's grip slid down his arms and tightened, bruising, shocking Éomer to awareness of his actions. He tore himself free, ignoring the twinge from his back, shame rather than passion now burning upon his face. He forced his eyes away from Faramir's shocked features.

Yea, worry over Faramir's long absence had sparked his damnable temper. But he had not planned to...and now, after seeing Faramir's horror, he *still* struggled to keep his distance. To not stride forth and reclaim Faramir in a closer embrace. To know the touch of more than those lips upon his own. To join with Faramir in a way far older than any words e'er spoken.

When had Éomer lost what few wits and little wisdom he possessed? Had Grima twisted some part of him with that single foul touch, turned Éomer so callous and wanton that he would force himself upon his savior? "I ask your pardon, Faramir. I could not---I understand if---"

He shook his head. "You must think me a whore indeed, to barely cleanse one man's seed from my body ere seeking another's touch." He closed his eyes, mourning the loss of Faramir's regard and his own half-formed dreamings. He'd thought to keep them tucked like embers to warm himself on lonely nights. Now they were tainted, and by his own thoughtlessness.

Éomer's lids flew open as he sensed Faramir's approach. But he merely braced himself for whatever recompense Faramir saw fit to demand.

He blinked as Faramir clasped tender hands to his cheeks, brought their foreheads together. "Never call yourself whore, Éomer of Rohan, else all such noble folk trapped by circumstance be also forced to claim the title."

Faramir drew back but a handspan. Éomer dearly wished they were beneath day's light, for the fire could ne'er fully reveal Faramir's reckonings. Yet Éomer was certain Faramir spoke truth as he continued, "I know not the details, but cannot see your choice as aught but a gift of love. To protect innocence is the most sacred of duties, and you have fulfilled it regardless of the cost you bear."

Éomer could scarcely trust that he comprehended the words, they were such balm to a spirit battered by Grima's taunts and his own imaginings. He curled cautious fingers about Faramir's wrists, felt the pulse quicken beneath his touch. He swallowed. "But what of this choice? Must you not view our congress with disgust?"

Though few sons of Eorl sought the touch of men when fairer company was offered, his people did not condemn such bonds. From the telling, however, Gondor was not so forgiving. Éomer's breath seemed to have deserted him as he awaited an answer.

At last he breathed deep. He thought he'd ne'er tire of Faramir's smile, of seeing the wide mouth shape that shy curve. "Nay, Éomer, for 'twas only by a moment that you bested me to the same action."

Éomer loosened his grasp, trailed his fingertips along tunic and cloak to reach Faramir's throat. Let his hands cup Faramir's strong jaw, palms tingling at the prickle of new beard. He knew not what mysterious workings had brought them together, nor whether the bond they were forging would last a day or a lifetime.

He only knew the here and now. And whether it be true feeling or mere illusion, Éomer could not deny the way his heart leapt as Faramir drew close once more.

And again Éomer was lost in his kiss...


	4. Chapter 4

Bliss. Faramir knew not the passage of time. There was only Éomer's lips pressed to his own, the dance of tongues and Faramir's exploration of the sweet secrets of Éomer's mouth. The feel of Éomer's hands upon him, the press of their bodies, the bare warm skin of Éomer's shoulders beneath his fingers.

This was his world. He wished for the moment to stretch to the end of reckoning, banishing all thoughts and cares, fears and duties. So there would be naught but this stirring of the senses and the singing of his heart.

But it was not to be. For his thoughts soon enough turned to the fates of his brother, his land, even the man in his embrace. For he knew that Éomer's path lay not alongside his own, but in the land of the horselords. This wondrous communion would be over all too soon.

With a final brush of lips, Faramir shifted to put space between their bodies. "This is not wise." An uncomfortable but unavoidable truth.

It pained Faramir to watch understanding dim the soft light in Éomer's eyes. But Éomer nodded, took the step back that separated them and resettled his cloak over his shoulders. "Aye, you have the right of it."

Rueful was how Faramir would describe the slight smile that curved Éomer's lush mouth, made fuller by the force of their kisses. "The bards say, Faramir, that time is a river after rain, swift rush that no man can escape." He gestured at the cave. "Yet I sense that here we have been granted a respite, a rest along the bank ere we become captives of the current once more."

Éomer sighed. "Some portion of my being sees your embrace as a homecoming, but I fear I cannot trust that feeling. For I know not the cause or consequence of this idyll."

Faramir had to agree. He hoped the bond with Éomer would last all their days, but he echoed Éomer's doubts. They knew each other so little, and not long. "I should check your wounds, Éomer."

Éomer shook his head, jerked his chin at the rabbits Faramir had brought. "Let us first prepare the repast you have secured." He grinned. "I will admit I am fair starved."

Faramir chuckled, and dutifully turned to his task. He shed his cloak, then skinned, gutted and spitted the rabbits, setting aside the offal to be buried outside later. From the corner of his eye he watched Éomer scrubbing some tubers and then burying them in the ashes of the fire.

When the spit was ready, he set it over the fire and crossed to the stream of water. He shivered at the chill rush over his fingers, but rubbed until his hands were free of blood and gore. He turned back to the fire. "I'll need---"

There was no chance to finish ere Éomer stood beside him with a steaming basin and cake of soap. In the shadows of the niche Faramir could not see the other man's face, but he could hear the smile as Éomer said, "Another myth you must dispel after this: That horselords know not the many uses for hot water."

Faramir snorted; he well knew that some Gondorians portrayed their neighbors as little more than crude barbarians. "In truth, I wish some men of my company had greater acquaintance with the notion of bathing."

"'Tis not a habit easily ingrained in little boys, or grown ones." Éomer chuckled. "I oft wonder there is any dirt left for plowing, so much of it is carried in on the children."

Faramir did not miss the catch in Éomer's last word. He nudged Éomer's arm, putting his own hands out for the water to be poured over them. "Are all your brood male then?"

The warm water splashed over his fingers, then Éomer pressed the cake of soap into them. "Nay, three of the four, though it's little wonder folk might think them all sons of Eorl. At just four winters, Éodeara finds her brothers' rough-and-tumble games vastly more attractive than dolls or more peaceful play. She e'en has their same scowl at the call for bathtime."

Faramir lathered up, then rinsed the soap and returned it. As Éomer once more poured water over his hands Faramir replied, "I have only my own memories and younger cousins for comparison, but it does seem that baths were dreaded far more than books." In truth, he had found many a companion dwelling in the tomes that made up the steward's library.

Éomer nodded and passed him a scrap of cloth for drying. "Aye, that is still the case, though I can recall many a summer's day I thought better spent with my horse and sword than slate or scroll." He moved away, the fire flashing on his teeth as he grinned over his shoulder. "Though my tutors could ne'er be persuaded to agree."

Faramir gathered his supplies while Éomer shed his cloak and knelt near the fire, slinging his hair forward. He settled behind the blond and studied the linen wraps, relieved that no sign of blood or suppuration stained them. After a moment he began to carefully peel the coverings from Éomer's back, glad the salve prevented them from sticking to the wounds.

To Faramir's eye, the cruel stripes looked not as angry as the night past. He took up cloth and full basin, cleansing the wounds ere he would apply more salve and new linen. He knew not what had guided him to pack more supplies for healing than a single ranger was wont to carry, but he was grateful just the same.

He sought some distraction for Éomer from the likely pain of the treatment. "Tell me of your sons."

For a moment he thought Éomer tensed beneath him, but the answer came readily enough. "The eldest boy, Elfwine, was born during the harvest seven years ago. He seems part horse, such is his communion with our steeds already. Fifteen moons later came the twins, Théomund and Dúnoden, and they are like winter and summer."

A hiss warned Faramir that he worked on a tender spot. He touched Éomer's shoulder in apology, but kept applying the salve. "Do you speak of their looks or natures?"

"Both. Théomund most closely resembles my uncle..." Éomer stopped, then seemed to shake himself from whatever reverie had claimed him. "At least, the uncle of my memory. He has the beginnings of the same piercing stare and careful speech."

Éomer glanced back at Faramir with a hint of a smile. "I sometimes swear Théomund is a misplaced scion of the Mundburg, such is his unnatural fondness for the written word. But to my relief he has shown equal love for the songs of éored and bard."

Faramir gave the implied slight a snort and careful nudge to Éomer's arm. "And Dúnoden?"

"Ah, he is a golden child. Much like his mother's people in looks---more square of face and build than my kin---and as cheering as a sunbreak on a cloudy day." Éomer paused. "After Dúneara's death I feared he and the others would ne'er smile again. But time has begun its work to heal the children's spirits."

"To lose a mother is a hard blow indeed," Faramir murmured, swallowing a sorrow that had lessened but never left him.

"Aye," was all Éomer said in return, and Faramir heard a wealth of knowing in the single word.

For a time there was no more speech between them.

************************************************************

Éomer wrinkled his nose but sipped the tea Faramir had brewed, heartily wishing for a mug of ale. At least these were different herbs, ones that did not make a man insensible as they did their healing work.

In truth he'd be content, if not for the uncertainties of his situation. As they'd passed the time Faramir had taken a turn to speak of life as a ranger, and relate some youthful adventures with the gallant Boromir.

Now Éomer was warm by the fire, belly full of plain but substantial fare. He sent silent thanks once more to the Eorlingas who'd provisioned him for his exile, as he'd spoken his gratitude to Faramir.

Even Firefoot was behaving for the ranger. For certain the stallion was not pleased at their continued inaction, but seemed willing enough to wait out Éomer's recovery. At the least, Firefoot had allowed Faramir to take both steeds on a walk ere sunset to stretch their legs and enjoy the sun, if not the chill wind.

Éomer's gaze focused as Faramir stoked and stacked the fire for the night. There had been a few hazardous moments during the flow and pause of their conversations. Times when Éomer had almost lost his hold on secrets that were not his to reveal.

'Twas strange, this bond with Faramir. A kind of fellowship, yet both more and less. Despite the brevity of their time together, Éomer had a sense that he could reveal all to Faramir. That any trust placed therein would not be disappointed.

But Éomer would not, could not test that belief. Years and promises lay heavy upon his thoughts, and he would make no attempt to shift them, despite the promptings of his heart.

Or the rousing of his passions. They had, it seemed, silently agreed not to venture further into intimate territory. But he could not help admiring the clean lines of the ranger's broad shoulders and strong limbs as Faramir continued his preparations. Faramir's profile highlighted bold nose and stubborn chin, the fire shimmering red-gold on the scruff of beard and untidy fall of hair.

Éomer sighed and drained the wooden beaker, setting it upon the stone floor. He rose from his crouch and stepped to the pile of blankets. The heat of the fire kept the chill from reaching him through his shirt and braies as he shed his cloak and folded it into a rough pillow.

He settled upon his side under his share of the blankets. However wise it may be to keep their distance, he would miss more than Faramir's warmth this night.

Mayhap Faramir was caught up in his own ponderings, for he seemed to be poking the wood now more out of habit than intent. Suddenly he cast aside the twig in his hands and stood, crossing to stand above Éomer. His gaze remained fixed upon some point beyond the fire's casting as he stripped off boots, tunic, and trews.

Éomer held up his blanket as Faramir spread his own o'er them both and slid in, back pressed to the blanket-covered floor and gaze contemplating the shadowed arch of ceiling. Éomer could think of naught to say, so kept silent. He knew not what had altered Faramir's resolve to stay apart, but he would not question his good fortune.

Mayhap his face revealed more of his confusion than he realized, for Faramir looked to him a moment ere saying, "It is a rare chance for me, to share another's bed." Faramir's hand rose, callused fingers a tender brush upon Éomer's cheek ere their retreat. "Rarer still, to be close to one I care for. I...I could not deny myself."

"I am glad of this." Éomer moved forward by the smallest of increments 'til there was scarce a fingerwidth between them. His palm rested content upon Faramir's chest, feeling firm muscles and the crinkle of hair even through the linen of Faramir's shirt. "'Tis been a lonely stretch of time for me as well." Longer than Faramir could know.

"How---how did your wife pass?" Faramir seemed to reconsider the question, the way his brows lowered and his gaze skittered away from Éomer's. But he did not withdraw his query.

Éomer squeezed his own eyes shut for a long moment, breathing deep and trying to banish the sudden flash of memory. The blood and bodies, the wrench of such great loss... "Éodeara had just been weaned. Dúneara...the birthing had been hard for her, and it seemed she ne'er recovered her strength, even so long after."

'Twas not 'til he felt Faramir's breath upon his hair that he realized that he'd leaned forward, laid his head upon Faramir's breast in imitation of how he woke this morn. He made to withdraw, but the tentative stroke of fingers through his hair bade him stay. He could not deny the solace found in that touch. "She wished to visit Edoras to find gifts for Yule. The children were to be left with her kin at Aldburg---" Éomer did not mention the reason. "While she and I visited Meduseld."

The unrelenting guilt held the next words back for several breaths. How different would these present days be, if the past had run its expected course? "But matters arose that I could not defer, and none but the Third Marshal could see to. So I changed my plans. There was no reason, though, for Dúneara to be denied her respite."

He swallowed. "Her brother Dúneald took my place at the head of the escort...the---the party was attacked by a large band of orcs midway between Aldburg and Edoras." His throat closed, and his eyes as well. So many moons later, he could only whisper the last. "None survived."

Heat and salt gathered under his lids, and he clenched them lest the drops steal out unbidden to seep into the cloth 'neath Éomer's face. The tale conjured their shades: Sweet Dúneara, courageous in ways none would e'er know; and Dúneald, Dúneald...

"Such grief at the recounting honors those lost." Faramir's voice was thick, with sympathy or his own rememberings. The hand on Éomer's hair burrowed underneath to gently clasp his nape.

Éomer swallowed once more, nodded, and wrapped his arms about Faramir's frame, holding on against the sorrows of the past and the uncertainties of the future. Yielding to this offer of closeness, his need to absorb the essence, the warmth and scent and feel of this man who'd been the first to breach the shroud of grief his heart had dwelled within since that dark day.

Faramir's voice was as soft as his touch. "Sleep, Éomer."

He obeyed.

************************************************************

Faramir dreamed of orcs. They flooded a vast plain like a river spilling over its banks, their dark stain spreading.

A small spot stayed unsullied gold and green. As Faramir's attention was drawn there, he could see three cloaked figures on this island carpeted in winter grass. Details escaped him, but one stood slightly ahead of the others.

A sudden gleam rose from that one's raised hand to shine like a beacon. The orcs squealed and scrambled away from that light, more and more land clearing until the orcs were gone as if they had never been.

But too soon another force took over the plain. A strange company of gray wolves as big as horses, they swirled around the figures as if to form a living prison. Nearer and nearer they circled, until they eclipsed that shining light---

A howl froze the creatures in their steps. A last wolf appeared, this one with shining coat of gold. It crossed the land in a handful of mighty leaps. With teeth bared and fierce snarl it scattered its fellows like geese, until once more the way was clear for the pilgrims on the plain. The silver gleam of the beacon joined the golden one of the wolf...the lights remaining fixed in Faramir's vision even after he woke.

The voice that had sent him forth from Ithilien spoke once more. "Rohan's future must return, else Gondor's hope be lost."


	5. Chapter 5

Éomer's back burned with every movement, and he hoped the wetness he felt was merely the sweat of his exertions. But he could not stop, no matter if he ripped open every stripe Grima's henchman had laid---Faramir and he were dead if the orcs got past the boulders and burning branches forming their meager battlement.

He hefted another head-sized stone, clutching it against his chest as he changed his grip and launched it through a gap at the seething mass of orcs.

An angry squeal greeted the landing. He allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction ere he grabbed one of his crude spears and hurled it into the stretched neck of a distracted beast. The twang of a bowstring sounded beside him as two arrows flew past in swift succession.

"'Twill come down to blades." Éomer panted as he glanced at Faramir while the orcs were dragging away the fallen. The ranger only grunted an assent, standing calm and straight, gaze steady and arrow nocked. Wisely hoarding his dwindling store of shafts for the moments they would do most good. Éomer turned his attention back to their attackers, hissing with pain as he lifted and slung another stone. There were few left small enough for him to handle, and only a handful of spears.

He'd spent their last day in the cave knapping flint and whittling branches, determined to face the Firien Woods armed with more than his knives. It seemed an unnecessary measure at first, as their trip through the forest had been cautious but unhindered.

For Éomer's part the time was well spent, sharing thoughts and tales with Faramir. Of finally knowing the summer-sky blue of eyes that whether laughing or mourning ne'er lost their thoughtful mien. Of learning the challenges of being the younger son of Denethor. Of understanding the ache of yearning for but ne'er earning a father's approval. Of finding one's place and oneself outside the walls of the Mundberg, as the leader of the rangers of Ithilien.

He ached to share with Faramir all that he was, all that duty had compelled him to do. But while he had regaled Faramir with moments from his childhood and time as a Rohir, his secrets had remained securely locked away.

As well, Éomer had realized that his feelings for this man deepened the longer he spent in the ranger's company. Faramir had wakened Éomer's heart from its disenchanted slumber of years, and in doing so had claimed a piece of it for his own. In their time together a yearning had been born in Éomer, a wish that the powers that guided men's courses would be kind enough to have Faramir requite his feelings, to let them journey together all their days.

But now they had reached the end of their idyll, and like as not their lives as well. The orcs had come upon them just after Faramir and he had established the night's encampment in a natural shelter of stone and forest. Their small fire had eagerly taken to the winter-dry bushes and trees that ringed the stones, forming a second layer of defense. The horses were positioned in a small clear space of grass and flowing water at the back of the enclosure, as yet more wary of the orcs than the flames.

The foul beasts had thus far been kept from breaching the opening between the slabs of rock. But in truth there were more orcs than all their arrows, spears, and stones combined.

As Éomer continued his efforts he wondered if this was how Théodred had felt that last morn at the Fords. Watching his death approach, knowing it would claim him. Éomer chose not to waste his final moments dwelling on regrets, for he could not change the choices that had brought him at this time to this place.

He understood not the dreams that made Faramir insist upon their return to Rohan's plains, but he'd trusted them, trusted Faramir. Éomer took a step back, picked up a branch from their woodpile for the night. He stretched to light it and then flung it out against their enemies. How strange that the crude creatures he fought were the better armed. 'Twas only luck that the orcs had little skill with the bow, and had not thought of turning Éomer's missiles against him.

"That was my last arrow." Faramir turned a grim soot- and sweat-streaked face to him a moment ere Faramir headed back for his horse. Éomer tossed his last spear, then drew his knives and whistled for Firefoot. They had but a few moments' grace ere the orcs realized the attacks had ended and launched their own offensive.

The plan was to make a last break for freedom ere the orcs could block the gap. As Éomer swung into the saddle, he glanced over to watch Faramir gather his reins in one hand. He could not discern Faramir's expression, but his speech was clear enough. "I am sorry, Éomer, that I have failed to see you safe to Rohan's plains once more."

Éomer was shaking his head in denial ere he realized it. He could not believe Faramir was taking this circumstance upon himself---if not for Faramir, Éomer would like as not have been dead days ago. "Nay, 'tis no lack upon your part. Fate has simply o'ermastered us both." He took a breath and sought words to convey how great a gift Faramir's presence had been...how Faramir had brightened his spirit in these dark days. "I thank you, Faramir of Gondor, for finding me."

Faramir looked startled, but then offered Éomer a nod. He sat tall upon his horse and drew his sword, the blade shining in the firelight.

Éomer mirrored the gesture and turned his blades to lay back along his forearms. He would sell his life as dearly as he could. He said silent farewells to the children, his sister, cousin, and uncle, and all the rest he called kin and kind. Wished for them a future without the evil that had fallen upon the land.

He was about to touch his heels to Firefoot's flanks when a sound rose above the roar of the fire and the screeches of the orcs---a horn! A quick glance confirmed Faramir had heard it as well. Éomer grinned with a sudden surge of hope. "'Tis not finished yet."

The orcs slewed around to face the newcomers. Éomer sent Firefoot forward, slashing at the creatures' unprotected backs. As some of the orcs turned toward them again he threw one knife, embedding it deep in a screaming orc's eye ere he snatched a sword from a crumpling corpse Faramir had beheaded. The crude blade was awkward in his hand, but he began to wield it as best he could, glad of the longer reach as he urged Firefoot away from another orc's slash. Very much aware of the lack of the mail, plate, and leather that he usually wore into battle.

The drifting smoke and sinking sun made it hard to see, but Éomer would swear there were arrows as well as spears flying into the mass of shifting black bodies. He looked for Faramir, saw the ranger holding his own, his mount angled to take some protection from the stones. Éomer kept Firefoot steady as well, not wanting to risk stumbling upon one of the rocks Éomer had earlier thrown.

It seemed not long ere the remainder of the orcs attacking them had joined the bodies that lay still upon the forest floor. Éomer carefully maneuvered Firefoot to Faramir's side, confirming that neither ranger nor horse had suffered any injury. When his gaze turned once more to the corpses, he could see the shapes of riders approaching in the waning light of the dying fire.

"You do naught by half-measures, Éomer. We thought someone had added a new beacon to the base of the Halifirien to match the one at its peak," said a voice Éomer well recognized.

"Fastred," Éomer called, relief easing the fierce grip he still held on knife and sword. Despite the decreed penalty for being found still dwelling within the Mark, he refused to believe a member of his own éored would do him harm. He tossed aside the crude orc blade as he swung down from the saddle, noting Faramir had cleaned and sheathed his sword and was dismounting as well. "What brings you to the Whispering Wood?"

"Our missing Third Marshal, of course." Fastred was on the ground and across the uncertain terrain faster than seemed safe. His hands were cautious on Éomer's arms---he must have been told of Grima's tender ministrations. "When we were finally allowed to leave Edoras, Éothain gathered all who would follow you into exile. He sent some of us out to search for you, ten men in each direction."

He felt Fastred's grip tighten as the man continued, "We feared you dead...as is our prince."

Éomer's head bowed. He set aside his weapons to let his own hands rest upon Fastred's shoulders. To know Théodred's death as a certainty...he stiffened his knees to hold them steady as his world shifted in profound and unwelcome ways. His eyes sought Faramir's, and he took strength from that compassionate gaze.

Eventually he released Fastred, returned his focus to the faces of his men gathering 'round. "I thank you all for defying the Worm." That they had banished themselves to find and follow him was a trust and tribute he'd ne'er forget.

He stepped to Faramir's side, restrained himself to a hand on Faramir's forearm. "And I may well have been dead by now, had I not the good fortune of meeting Faramir of Gondor, a ranger of Ithilien."

Ere Éomer could say more another voice broke in, "Our captain and, in truth, as joyously found as you, Marshal."

***************

"Damrod." Faramir attempted to keep the surprise from his voice. He murmured the names of other rangers as they moved into the light. His brows drew together, though in truth he could not summon anger for their insubordination. It was...gratifying to know they held him in great enough esteem to seek him here. "Is there trouble in Ithilien?"

"Nay, Captain," Damrod was quick to reply. "Mablung holds the forest in keeping for your return." He offered a small smile. "He agreed that rangers travel more swiftly in company, gave us horses, and bid us turn our skills to whatever purpose took you past our borders."

Faramir could only offer that a nod. After a swallow, he let his voice carry to all of his men. "I thank you for your most timely arrival."

"Aye," Éomer said beside him. Faramir could not help noting Éomer's hand was still clasped about his forearm. He was certainly not displeased by the contact, and returned his attention to Éomer's further words. "Your bows were a welcome addition to this battle."

Faramir smiled at Éomer's obvious appreciation of the Gondorians' efforts. "It seems rangers and riders make a formidable combination." He looked to Damrod, gestured between the two groups. "Did you travel together to this meeting?"

Damrod glanced at Fastred before he answered. "Only briefly. We were attempting to pick up your trail when our scouts met the horselords. We'd just discovered our searches were much the same when we caught sight of the fire."

Fastred nodded. "Seemed some trouble was in the offing, and like as not one of our missing masters lay at the center." He grinned at Éomer. "And we were correct, but 'twas a fine bit of fighting, all the same."

Faramir echoed Éomer's snort. It seemed irrepressibility was a common trait in men of the Riddermark. "We had best travel on, this is no longer a place given to rest." He reluctantly removed his arm from Éomer's grasp, gaze searching Éomer's features for signs of pain. He lowered his voice. "No doubt your back needs tending, after such use."

Éomer shrugged, but Faramir could see the stiffness of the movement. But Éomer issued his orders easily enough, in a voice that carried. "Pile the corpses, and be sure the fire takes them but spreads no farther. We cannot wish to feed the whole of the Whispering Wood to the flames."

Faramir motioned for his rangers to aid the men of Rohan, then beckoned Damrod closer as Éomer moved forward to consult with Fastred. "Know you of a suitable campsite near here? I need water, fire, and shelter to tend the marshal's wounds."

Damrod glanced at Éomer, surprise lifting his brows. "I was not aware he'd been struck---the marshal wielded sword and spear readily enough."

"That was more necessity and stubbornness than ease." Faramir's mind catalogued his remaining healing supplies, wondering how swiftly he could put them to use.

"There is a clearing by the stream not far from here," Damrod said with a gesture to the west. "We met the horselords there, and all of our mounts fit the space easily enough."

"The Rohirrim carry tents for making shelters upon the plains," Éomer said as he and Fastred rejoined the conversation. "One should provide protection enough for your work, Faramir."

And privacy, Faramir was quick to note. Now that their parting was likely to come with the dawn, he wanted as much time with Éomer as he could wrest from the situation. "I will leave a few men here to keep company with yours, to ensure the fire stays contained until the corpses are consumed."

"Aye, 'tis a good plan." When Damrod and Fastred departed Éomer let loose a sigh. He raised soot-stained fingers to rub at an equally grimy brow. "I admit I am glad to quit this place." He leaned closer to murmur, "Though I'll not forget your standing with me as I thought I met my end, Faramir."

Faramir nodded. "Nor will I." He raised a hand to grasp Éomer's shoulder a moment before he turned and mounted once more.

He spent the journey to the clearing listening to Damrod's report, though his gaze kept straying to where Éomer was riding beside Fastred, the grim line of Éomer's lips a sign that not all was well in Rohan.

Not that Gondor fared much better. There had come no news as yet of Boromir's fate, and Faramir feared his brother had met with some misfortune in his travels.

Whether Faramir liked it or not, he was being drawn back into the trials and intrigues of Gondor's defense. He closed his eyes a moment, wondering how many more generations must dwell in darkness and fear.

Soon enough they reached the clearing, to find fires started, stew and water heating. A single tent was set in the middle of the space, light shining within.

Faramir dismounted and nodded thanks as one of his rangers stepped forth to take the reins. With swift hands he gathered what he'd need to care for Éomer's wounds.

Éomer fell into step with Faramir as they made their way to the tent. "Fastred tells me water for drinking and washing will be brought when it is ready." He rubbed his hands. "I reminded him to bring basins, else the whole pot will be made black ere we've scrubbed our faces."

Faramir nodded as they entered the tent. Warmth greeted him, from a brazier set opposite two piles of blankets and furs. A shaft of disappointment struck him at the arrangements. Although he and Éomer had taken turns keeping watch as they traveled, they had still kept in contact: One man's head rested upon the other's thigh in turn as each night passed.

Now they would not have even that closeness. Their shadows thrown large and strange against the fabric walls reminded Faramir that they would be seen in silhouette by all the camp. He sighed and set aside his package, then divested himself of his cloak. "Do you need help with your clothing?"

"Aye, for certain my back would not approve of me lifting my arms anymore this night." Éomer had dropped his own cloak, and at his words gave up on gathering the hems of his shirt and tunic.

Faramir could not hold back a fond smile as he crossed to take over the task. For all Éomer's greater height and bulk, at the moment the grimy face and sleep-heavy eyes made him no more than a toddler being undressed at bedtime.

Éomer blinked himself awake as Faramir began to ease the cloth up Éomer's torso. "Did your men bring word of Boromir?"

"Nay," was all Faramir could reply as he lowered his eyes, struggling to suppress the surge of worry as he set aside Éomer's garments.

A hand on Faramir's jaw lifted his face to Éomer's gentle gaze. "Then you must still hold hope that your brother will return to you."

As Éomer's cousin would not, could not. "I will." Faramir paused. "I am sorry for the loss of Théodred."

A grunt and the Éomer's sudden stillness were his only answer. With a touch on one shoulder he bid Éomer turn. In the light of the fire he examined the linen protecting the strong back. From the streaks of fresh red, a few of the whip marks had broken and bled anew. "These scars will not quickly fade." For a brief moment guilt claimed him, as absurd the notion was. He had not wielded the whip nor shirked any care of Éomer. Quite the opposite.

"They are apt reminders of the folly of losing my temper." Éomer paused. "And the blessing of finding true...friends." He turned, gazing at Faramir with eyes lit by a soft glow Faramir would remember all his days.

"Aye." Faramir's hands rose to cup Éomer's face as he drew forward to claim the slight smile on those full lips.

He startled to a stop at the sound of one of Éomer's riders entering with a cauldron of steaming water, and a ranger bearing two full bowls and an equal number of empty mugs.

The regret he felt at the interruption was mirrored in Éomer's face. But Faramir straightened his shoulders and set himself to his tasks. "I have soap, but we will need cloths for drying, and new bandages for the marshal's back once the wounds have been cleaned and salved."

As the men deposited their offerings and made way for new arrivals, Faramir feared any hope of further conversation this night was lost.

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The morn came too soon. Éomer had cursed himself when he woke, remembering how quickly he'd succumbed to exhaustion yestereve. There had been no chance for further private talk, so deep and long had he slept. He now stood with Faramir as the camp was dismantled around them. All that was in his heart was o'erwhelmed by sorrow at the thought of their parting.

He was as well unable to dispel a growing sense of dread, though whether Faramir's fate or his own was in jeopardy he could not say. He had neither dreams nor visions to guide him---only the truth that he wished Faramir to remain by his side and the knowledge that it could not be so.

A hard push of a muzzle against his back sent him stumbling against Faramir. Even as he winced he grabbed Faramir's shoulders with a laugh, reminding himself to reward Firefoot for his timely action. His grip gentled as he watched their breaths mingle in the dawn.

There was much he would want to say, but little that was safe for their audience. He looked into Faramir's eyes, so blue in the growing light. "Fare well, Faramir." The whisper was all he could manage past the sudden tightness in his throat.

"And you, Éomer, and you." Faramir swallowed, and Éomer felt the grip of sure hands at the crooks of his elbows.

He lost himself in Faramir's gaze, as if time was held in abeyance as the moment stretched, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath.

"We are ready, Marshal." Fastred's none-so-subtle reminder of just who Éomer was and what duties he owed stabbed quick into Éomer's thoughts.

With a last sigh he released Faramir, took the step back that wrenched his heart and parted them. With a sharp breath he turned to Firefoot and mounted in a swift movement.

He glanced back as they left the clearing to see Faramir wreathed in light, his bright eyes and fiery hair a beacon whose summoning Éomer wished he was free to answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Faramir dreamed...drifted in visions that approached and departed like flickers of torchlight glimpsed through the leaves, there and gone.

He relived the charge on Osgilath. Denethor's Folly---Faramir's Bane. Saw again the black shapes of orcs clinging like mildew to the city's broken spires. Ached with the guilt of leading good men to their deaths.

For no reason at all, save a madman's whim and a son's futile hope of finding favor. Such waste...such a useless, obscene waste of life.

His awareness followed as the Dark Lord's minions flooded the Pelennor. Orcs and Uruk-Hai and creatures born of nightmares besieged the White City. He could smell the blood and death that drifted with the heavy smoke. Heard the pounding of battering rams and the screeching of the winged steeds of the Nazgûl.

Faramir watched the Great Gate fall. Tasted despair---it filled his spirit, thick and choking. Drowning him, and he was ready to succumb.

But then a sound as clear and bright as a sunburst through clouds swept across the field. Horns! The proud call of a fierce people.

Rohan had come.

Faramir watched the horselords surge across the Pelennor, warriors' hair and horses' manes streaming in the wind of their passage. The glint of spear tips, arrowheads, and swords clear even in the gray dawn.

He cringed at the sight of steeds and riders, so tiny set against the bulk of Oliphaunt and Uruk-Hai. And yet the bold men of Rohan rode forth to save a people, a city, a land not their own.

Éomer could be glimpsed, now and again. Shouting as he flung his spear into the chest of an Oliphaunt rider; his head thrown back as he howled, arms clutching a limp golden-haired figure to his chest; his blows swift but his face set like stone as he led his troops once more into battle, blade scything all enemies before him like so many stalks of wheat.

And then a moment of calm amidst the chaos, as Éomer and Firefoot paused on a small hillock not yet overrun. Watching. For sailing up the Anduin were black ships that carried the doom of men.

Éomer sat tall in his saddle, his mien unbowed as he thrust the standard of Théoden King into the ground and lifted his sword in defiance.

How Faramir wished he could dream a better fate for this golden warrior.

But suddenly Éomer's smile flashed. He tossed his sword into the air, sang as he caught it.

Then Faramir too saw the White Tree of Gondor flying from the lead ship's mast and knew that hope had not yet breathed its last.

***************

Éomer sat beside his sister's bed. His hands, still stained with blood and mud and gore, lay open in his lap. He could not bestir himself to cleanse them, to seek out food or a place to rest. Or to have tended the stripes upon his back, which like as not broke open again in the heat of battle.

Naught could he do, but stare in wonder at the rise and fall of Éowyn's breath. She lived---each time he had the thought, the wonder of it struck him anew. Éowyn lived.

He now could hope again. Hope that Faramir, too, would heal. Hope that athelas and Aragorn's stubbornness would drag the brave and gentle son of the Steward from his fevered dreams.

But he could not _know_ , yet, whether Faramir had returned to this life or departed for the halls of his forefathers. Could not yet face a Middle-Earth without that hope. Without Faramir.

So Éomer sat and watched. And hoped.

***************

Faramir's thoughts grew muddled then. Warriors and beasts still clashed on a battlefield fogged with smoke and riddled with the humped silhouettes of the dead.

Eventually he drifted into grayness, sensed the darkness creeping over him like evening shadows stretching and merging into night.

But light once more broke across his vision. A white stone blazed in a golden crown that graced a noble brow. Long blond hair, finally tamed, flowed past broad shoulders and onto a green velvet cloak.

Faramir looked upon the face beneath the crown: Éomer, gaze at once soft with caring and sharp with worry. Lips moving in words Faramir could not hear, Éomer's hand lifted, fingers curled. Beckoning...calling...pleading...

Everything in Faramir reached back. Rushed back, until shock drew a sharp breath into lungs he could feel, along with the pain of wounds and grief and guilt and burdens he must bear. But he answered the warrior of his dreams. "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"

He opened his eyes to a stranger's face.

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Eyes the stern gray of gathering clouds. A face weathered and leathered by a lifetime of sun and wind. A frown carved deep despite the thick blond beard that surrounded it. Long plaits halfway through the shift from gold to silver.

Éomer blinked. "Elfhelm."

He blinked again. His hands were clean. He could easily see them, as they were barely a fingerlength from his nose. His bare forearms were crooked before him, and he had somehow come to be lying on his belly on white linen.

Éomer shifted slightly, feeling the pull of fresh bandages on his back---naught else covered his clean skin but braies and another thin sheet. A frown began to draw his brows together as he regarded his silent Marshal. "Where is Éowyn? How does she fare?"

He tried to determine his surroundings, but Elfhelm's hefty form claimed much of the view. By the light shining around the man, dawn had long passed. "How did I come to be here, Elfhelm? _Where_ is here?"

Elfhelm chuckled. "Cease your squawking, young cockerel." He briefly rested one broad, scarred hand upon Éomer's head. His expression gentled, as did his tone. "Fare you well, Éomer?"

Éomer quieted somewhat under the touch---Elfhelm had been mentor and friend for more than half of Éomer's life. "Aye, well enough." He shifted, pulling the top sheet around his shoulders as sat at the edge of the bed. Felt the twinge of hard-used muscles and half-healed wounds. When he was settled he gestured for Elfhelm to begin his report.

"In order," Elfhelm began, his hand lifting to idly stroke his beard. "Éowyn remains in her room, sleeping. She continues to heal, but the path will be long and the pace slow. Or so says the ranger-turned-king."

His head tilted as he regarded Éomer. "Aragorn and Gandalf found you collapsed at your sister's side. The wizard made certain you slept through the tending of the stripes upon your back."

Elfhelm sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "Éomer---"

"There is naught to say on the matter." Éomer spoke mere truth. "The Worm had his day, and his day is done. We shall all carry reminders."

"Aye," Elfhelm murmured, but his gaze held words aplenty. Then he shook himself from his reverie and waved a hand at their surroundings. "This is one of the storerooms the healers have been using for rest between tending to the wounded."

Éomer cast his eyes about the space. Now that he was seated, he could easily see the shelves that lined the walls. Like as not they were usually filled with clean linen, bottles and jars of medicaments. But now they were bare save for stray rags and half-full vessels scattered here and there.

A testament to the losses and wounds suffered by both Rohan and Gondor these last days. Éomer sat taller, breathed as deep as lingering pain would allow. "How fares Faramir of Gondor?"

"Fastred has told me of your travels with the ranger of Ithilien," Elfhelm said with a nod. "He, too, abides in the land of the living, along with young Meriadoc. It seems the black breath will gain no more from this battle than the good men already claimed."

Éomer's eyes burned, joy at Faramir's recovery tempered with the knowledge that Théoden was counted among the victims of the Nazgûl and their fell beasts. "'Tis good to hear," he whispered, words forced from a thickened throat.

"Aye." Elfhelm rose from his chair and sat beside Éomer, their shoulders leaning together as they mourned.

************************************************************

Faramir sat by the single window in his small chamber at the Houses of Healing. His gaze roamed an herb garden just rousing to spring. Wondered if anyone in the world of men would be left to see the plants come to full flower.

Scores of scrolls lay piled upon a small table-turned-desk at his elbow. Lists of the dead and wounded---incomplete, and perhaps would always remain so. The falling stones of the White City cared not who were crushed beneath them.

More pressing were the tallies of supplies. The Rohan Riders had arrived with little more than their mounts, weapons, and the clothes on their backs. They---and the forces of Gondor---would need provisioning for the march upon the Black Gate.

Faramir shook his head. He knew the reasoning, agreed with it. Frodo must have time and space to bring the One Ring to the fires of Mount Doom. The Army of the Men of the West would be a distraction, but such a costly one. As one of the few survivors of the charge on Osgilath, Faramir could not help wonder how many would fall at the very threshold of Sauron's realm.

And whether Éomer would be among those who lost their lives to what seemed to be an all-but-hopeless cause.

He'd not seen the Rider since wakening to the keen-eyed gaze of the Heir of Isildur. Part of him had yet to grasp the fact of Aragorn...the knowledge that after so many years of waiting, Gondor would once more have a king.

Even if he looked like a scraggly-haired ranger in need of a bath.

A small smile touched Faramir's lips; in truth, Aragorn *had* bathed before he returned this morn to check upon Faramir. A cautious inquiry had revealed that the healer had tended Éomer as well, and that the horselord was still sleeping away one of Gandalf's enchantments.

No doubt Éomer had needed the rest. Still...

"Faramir?"

As if Faramir's thoughts had conjured the horselord, Éomer stood at the threshold. Clad in trews and shirt of poor quality and ill fit, but still a balm to Faramir's worried eyes.

"Éomer." Faramir struggled to keep such profound relief from his expression, to keep his voice from becoming overwarm with the feelings Éomer engendered within his breast. His greedy gaze flicked over Éomer as the Rohir stepped within the chamber, brightening it with his golden mane and a smile seeming touched with a childlike wonder.

"You live." Éomer's strides made short work of the small distance between them. He sank to one knee before Faramir's chair, gathering Faramir's hands into his own. "I scarce dared to hope, after all I'd heard of the tale of Osgilath."

The faint calluses on Éomer's palms and fingertips tingled as they dragged along Faramir's skin. He ignored the open doorway, returning Éomer's clasp with welcome pressure. But he could not keep the sorrow from his voice as he dropped his gaze. "Aye, a bad business indeed."

Faramir was glad of Éomer's patient silence until Faramir roused himself from the pool of memories. "But now is not the time to tell of it." He lifted his head and studied Éomer's visage. So like his dream, but marred by shadows of fatigue and grief. "Aragorn spoke of your wounds, Éomer. Did the Pelennor leave its mark upon you?"

"Nay, Faramir." Éomer squeezed reassurance into Faramir's hands, stroked with gentleness that seemed at odds with the strength of the warrior's grip. "'Tis only the stripes you yourself have seen."

He shrugged, carefully. "It seems I must dally on the path to full recovery a while longer."

Faramir frowned as he examined their hands, broad and narrow, golden and pale. As different as sun and moon, day and night. Yet alike. He threaded their fingers together, studied the weaving of flesh and bone. "Despite that, I doubt not that you will be at the head of the march to the Black Gate."

"Needs must, Faramir." Éomer sighed, stretched his forefinger to caress the top of Faramir's wrist. "My uncle is dead, my cousin passed...as a son of Eorl, I know what I am called to do."

He glanced up, earnest gaze now full upon Faramir. "But I would ask a boon of you ere I go."

"Ask all that you want or need." Faramir could wish Éomer would ask for his heart, his hand, his kiss...but such pledges were not to be. These were uncertain times, and more than ever were their paths separated by vagaries of birth and fate.

"My sister, Éowyn..." Éomer's expression grew somber at the name. "She slew the Witch King of Angmar, but was sore wounded. More in spirit, even, than in body."

Éomer's fingers tightened along Faramir's. "Faramir, I ask that you visit my sister while I am gone. You..."

A flush began to climb Éomer's high cheekbones. "You brought hope to me in my darkest hour. I can only wish that in your company Éowyn, too, might find comfort in its light."

Faramir smiled at Éomer, freed one hand to card the waves of golden hair. To caress the side of Éomer's face, watching hazel-green eyes close as Éomer leaned into the touch. "Aye, Éomer, you have my word I shall watch over your sister as if she were my own."

The easing of Éomer's expression was ample reward, but Faramir's whole body thrilled at the swift brush of Éomer's lips across the knuckles of his captured hand. "You have my thanks, Faramir." Éomer lifted eyes that glimmered with all that was still unspoken between them. "I must make ready to depart."

"May you go with all the blessings of the Valar." Faramir's swift glance showed the hall beyond empty of passersby. He ducked down, pressed a kiss to Éomer's sweet lips. "And the hope of my heart," he whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

Faramir ran cautious fingertips down the black velvet of his---no, his father's robes. His brows drew together as he fumbled along his memories...he had no recollection of dressing so. The silver seal of Steward gleamed where it dangled at the end of its thick chain. The cool weight chilled his palm as he lifted it to catch the light.

"Faramir," Éomer called.

A startled glance up revealed Éomer some five paces away. He stood beside Firefoot, the warhorse's reins looped around one hand. The other reached out toward Faramir in a familiar gesture.

"Faramir," Éomer called again and stepped toward him. In a blink Firefoot morphed from an ordinary creature to one he knew not: A horse Oliphaunt-large with a coat so white it hurt the eyes to gaze upon it. The reins blurred into a more sinister shape: A golden chain that wound around Éomer's wrist and held him to the horse's side.

Faramir leapt forward, ready to free Éomer from this most strange imprisonment. With a grunt of pain he was pulled back into place with a vicious yank.

He looked down and found that the chain that had hung loosely upon his breast now wrapped itself around him, much in the manner of a draft horse's harness. Desperate fingers tugged at the unyielding links as he looked to Éomer.

But Éomer was being dragged away by the white horse, its coat shining brighter with every step. Éomer's form was eclipsed by it, last of all his outstretched hand.

Faramir threw himself after them again and again. But his struggles were for naught---the chains of silver upon his breast held him fast. His vision blurred as a cry strangled in his throat.

The voice that haunted him sounded above his heaving breaths. "Gondor's claim is Rohan's regret."

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The sun blessed the return of Gondor's king. Faramir squinted at the glare of its light reflected off the array of polished metal worn by the warriors accompanying Aragorn to the main gate of Minas Tirith.

The white rod of the Steward slid easily between Faramir's palms. He stood as straight, wishing for his ranger's leggings and tunic instead of the rich black cloth of his robes. _His_ robes, not his father's, but alike in cut and color.

And in their weight upon him.

Faramir wore not the seal of the office he had assumed. That still graced Denethor's corpse; his father was welcome to it.

His breath seemed to keep time with Aragorn's steps. The idyll at Cormallen showed in the Dunedain's face. The easing of the lines of strain brought a measure of peace to Aragorn's sun-weathered features.

Éomer stood some paces apart, at the front of a column of Rohirrim. Faramir's gaze traced the contours of Éomer's face and form, seeking evidence that the horselord was at last fully healed.

His attention was claimed once more when Aragorn stopped in front of him. Faramir sank to one knee. "The Stewards held rod and rule in the name of the king, until the king should return."

He balanced the rod upon flat palms, offering it to Aragorn. "King of Gondor, take back thy rod and thy rule."

Aragorn's hand closed upon the rod, but did not draw up its weight.

Pale eyes bore into Faramir's, and Faramir could feel the slight push of the rod against his hands as if it were being returned to his keeping. In that moment, all that could and could not be swept over him. "Please." Faramir dared a whisper. "Do not punish me with my father's office."

Aragorn's brows rose as his eyes widened. After a pause filled with sharp scrutiny, his expression calmed. Aragorn's head dipped with the slightest of nods. "Steward of Gondor, the king has returned and thanks you for the devoted service of you and your kin."

With the slightest twist of his wrist, Aragorn lifted the staff from Faramir's hands. "I take back my rod and my rule."

***************

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Faramir lost sight of Éomer in the surge of people rushing forward to greet Gondor's new king. No doubt Éomer was seeking out his sister to assure himself that Éowyn had truly recovered.

Faramir sidled out of the flow of bodies. He ducked into an abandoned garden through a jagged gap in the stone wall enclosing it.

He crossed to lean against the trunk of a tree cloaked in the misty green of budding leaves. It was a fine place to pass the time ere Aragorn and company could make their way to the Citadel.

"Cousin, may I have a word?" The light, strong voice sounded close to his ear.

He managed not to jump. Faramir turned to find his cousin Amrothos---Roth to all but the man's sire, Prince Imrahil---close to hand. At Faramir's nod, the youngest prince of Dol Amroth settled on a stone bench with his usual indolent ease, one hand braced on the seat and long legs crossed at the ankle. Yet his cloud-gray eyes proved to any who would gaze upon them that Roth had grown far older than his five-and-twenty years.

No doubt any veteran of the march to Morannon, the Black Gates of Mordor, would look the same. Guilt added a further twinge to healing muscles as Faramir pushed a hand through his hair and waited.

"Did you know what Aragorn planned?" Roth's voice thrummed with an emotion Faramir could not quite place. A full ten years separated them, and in truth Faramir did not know his younger cousins well. Too oft had Gondor's troubles intruded upon---or prevented---the visits that would have encouraged closer ties with his kin.

"To what do you refer?" Faramir asked with due caution.

"Tossing aside your birthright." Roth straightened with a stiff movement unlike his customary grace. "At Cormallen, my father was certain Aragorn meant to keep you in your father's office."

Thin black brows lowered as Roth pulled at his bottom lip. "Perchance our new king does not wish to divide your attentions."

He looked up and focused on Faramir. "Aragorn means to declare Ithilien a principality like unto Dol Amroth---set under your rule as a fully titled prince of the realm."

Faramir swallowed his surprise, endeavoring to keep his expression serene. "I have not heard such, but in truth the time spent in our liege lord's company has been brief."

"He means to reward you for releasing the Ringbearer against your father's wishes---and your rescue of Éomer King, of course." Roth shrugged.

"You were with them..." Faramir shifted, leaning a shoulder to the tree to face Roth more fully. "Did Aragorn take on the treatment of Éomer's wounds?"

"Aye, both on the road to Morannon and at Cormallen, after," Roth replied with a nod. "Éomer would accompany Aragorn to Samwise and Frodo's tent each evening for a visit. Aragorn said 'twould make his task easier if all his most troublesome patients were in one place."

Roth suddenly chuckled. "In truth, the two kings like as not saw it as a welcome respite. They were fair besieged---it seemed every unmarried maid and matron in Gondor descended upon them whenever they dared walk about the camp."

"What?" Faramir forced the word past a sudden tightness in his throat.

An eyeroll accompanied Roth's reply. "The ladies most closely resembled a pack of hounds, sniffing out their royal prey at every opportunity. I knew not whether to envy or pity the men."

He shook his head. "Especially Éomer---he had nary a moment's peace, with all the cooing and fluttering around him. He certainly has his pick of potential queens."

Faramir reached a fumbling hand to a low-hanging branch, the sudden chill and weakness in his limbs not entirely due to his recent illness. It was as if he trod upon solid earth, only to find it merely a clump of bracken covering a deep hole. So much for his dreams...

Roth snorted. "Even Lothiriel is smitten. I swear I shall do some violence if I hear her once more recount the multitude of virtues to be found in the Rohan king."

Faramir's stupefaction was broken by a flash of blond and bronze at the edge of his vision. Although Faramir dearly wished for a moment's respite, Éomer strode farther into the garden, the metals of his armor bright and dull in turns as he entered the shadowed pattern cast by the branches of Faramir's tree.

"I would ask a moment of your time, Faramir." Éomer's quiet tone made sharp contrast to the intensity of his gaze.

***************

Éomer checked the urge to rush to Faramir's side. He nodded to Amrothos as the Dol Amroth prince passed, a strange gleam in the younger man's gray eyes.

A frown made its way unbidden to Éomer's face. But he threw his shoulders back and faced this latest heartache head on, as a Rohir should.

He had learned early that loss was as much a part of life as joy---more oft the greater part, it seemed. But this was a blow to his spirit he knew would not soon heal.

The irony that love was the cause near choked the breath from his throat. "How do you fare, Faramir?"

A shaft of sunlight set ablaze a patch of Faramir's auburn hair as he moved his head. The blue eyes stayed in shadow. "Well enough."

Éomer's hands fisted; with an effort of will he opened them once more. Best to make this swift and clean, the slash of a knife across the throat. "Heard you of my sister's long sorrow?"

Faramir merely nodded in reply, creases forming across his brow.

"What you cannot know is that the blame for that grief lies at my door." Éomer had to look away, shame e'en so long after the deed heating his skin. "After Dúneara died, my uncle wanted the children fostered at Meduseld. Though I was oft gone from them for weeks while on patrol, I insisted they remain at Aldburg."

A glance revealed Faramir had not shifted, puzzlement still clear upon his face. Éomer swallowed and continued his tale. "I wanted to bring Éowyn to Aldburg as well, or send her to Helm's Deep to dwell with Théodred. But Théoden would not allow it, would not be left without kin to attend him under his own roof."

Éomer breathed deep. "So Éowyn was forced to stay at Meduseld, trapped in the shadow of a dying king and plagued by the vile whispers of Grima Wormtongue."

He met Faramir's eyes. "I paid for the children's safety with my sister's freedom."

Faramir shook his head. "Although it is a sad tale, I must confess my confusion: Why speak of this to me?"

Éomer hid the struggle to form the hated words. "I have heard from Marshal Elfhelm how you have healed my sister's spirit these last weeks...so much that Éowyn preferred to remain in Minas Tirith rather than join me in Cormallen."

He closed his eyes. "I have learned of the attentions you have paid to her, the gifts you have bestowed upon her, including your mother's mantle."

Éowyn's smiling visage from just a few moments past filled his memory. "She has spoken of her great admiration for you." 

Éomer banished the vision with a blink. He looked to Faramir, to the man he had dared dream of, on the march to Morannon. To the man he would now have to embrace as a brother, and naught more. "I love my sister, Faramir. I would do much to ensure her happiness."

Éomer took a step toward Faramir, stopped himself from reaching out for what could never be his. "If you and she have...come to an understanding, I shall grant you her hand."

"Full willing, no doubt." Faramir's tone was strangely flat.

The reply caused Éomer's gut to tighten, but he gave the answer he must. "Aye, if it be her wish and yours."

In the next moment Faramir was a handsbreadth from Éomer, handsome face turned harsh angles and clenched teeth. "It is _not_ my wish, Éomer King---I shall not fall in with your plans so easily."

Éomer bristled, yet held his tongue and his temper.

Ere he could demand explanation, Faramir had leaned in, lip curling as he sneered. "Is this a Rohan bargain? Mean you to trade your sister to Gondor for my cousin Lothiriel? This much I can assure you: The princess of Dol Amroth already fancies herself your wife."

Éomer's view was filled with Faramir, so close but with an expression cold as the winter wind. Anger and confusion warred in Éomer's breast.

"Speak plain, Éomer," Faramir bade him. "You no longer have use for one such as myself when so many women are arrayed for your perusal. But you need not pretend a romance betwixt Éowyn and me to get your way."

Faramir placed palms upon Éomer's chest and shoved. "Fear not, Rohan _King_. I'll do naught to keep you from claiming a queen to grace your Golden Hall."

***************

The storm lashing Faramir's spirit drove him away---away from this garden, away from Éomer, away from thoughts of what would never be.

He was yanked to a halt by a fist in his robes. He heard fabric tear as he was flung toward the tree.

Faramir's back landed against it with a thud, but ere he could draw breath Éomer was pressed tight against him, mail and armor a harsh weight against his body.

Éomer's hands clamped on Faramir's shoulders, his eyes dark and wild. He snarled, "Ne'er again speak of my sister thus or I swear my blade will drink your life's blood. She is no filly to be handed over as a gift or sold for breeding stock."

Faramir could feel Éomer's heated breath against his face, failed to draw his own.

His distress must have reached Éomer's awareness, for he released Faramir and put space between them.

The fire in Éomer's eyes died as fast as a spark with no tinder. He deflated with the sigh he gave, so low and long and full of care it seemed. "I know not why you speak such words, Faramir, but know this: There will be no queen in the Riddermark 'til Elfwine reigns."

Faramir sagged at the quiet statement. He shook his head, though he knew not whether he denied Éomer's speech or his own imaginings.

"Faramir, 'tis you who have held my thoughts since I first awakened in the cave at Halifirien." Éomer's brows drew together. His hand lifted, but as swiftly dropped to his side. "Do you truly think so little of me? Can you believe I would take a woman to wife, only to deny her every joy of that office?"

"Forgive me." Faramir gathered himself and moved toward Éomer. Now that his vision was no longer clouded by speculation, he could discern the same confusion and sorrow in Éomer's visage that had plagued his own mind. "I held rumor as truth when I should have trusted my own heart. You are a man of honor, Éomer. That I forgot this is a stain upon my own."

"I would grant any measure of absolution, Faramir, if you as well forgive my actions here." Éomer rested a hand upon Faramir's shoulder, the touch far more tentative than any previous. "Has my temper caused you further harm?"

"Nay." Faramir placed his hand upon Éomer's, welcoming its warmth and weight. "My own thoughts pain me far more than any hurt dealt by you."

"Is there truly only friendship 'twixt you and Éowyn?" Éomer searched Faramir's face.

"Aye." Faramir offered the reassurance with a smile at the thought of the White Lady of Rohan. "It is true, we have spent much time in each other's company. But it was the sharing of confidants, not the courting of lovers."

He shrugged. "I swear, Éomer, my mother's mantle was a gift as if from brother to sister. Éowyn knows this...she knows also that I shall never have a wife to wear it."

"Then I must beg your forgiveness as well, Faramir. For doubting you." Éomer drew close enough to share breath.

His hand slid from beneath Faramir's. He clasped Faramir's face, drawing their foreheads together. Éomer's fear was revealed in a whisper. "I...I feared to lose you, and yet also I feared I would be unable to give you up, causing Éowyn further grief. Hearing you speak so harshly, I---I could not contain myself."

"Let this moment pass, Éomer," Faramir murmured as he mirrored Éomer's touch, Éomer's short beard a soft brush against his palms and fingers.

He could not deny the hope that returned to his breast in a rush almost painful. "We have had little time together. No surprise then, that we both fell prey to uncertainty. Thus both of us may grant and accept forgiveness for the lapse."

Faramir drew back half a step, but did not relinquish his hold. "Let us meet under the White Tree, when all is quiet and the city sleeps. We shall speak more then."

Éomer could do no more than nod ere Amrothos's voice called them once more to duty.


	8. Chapter 8

The risen moon found Faramir not under the White Tree, but at the gap in the wall encircling the promontory. The Pelennor spread out below, a vast plain of silver dotted by occasional fires and patches of darker shadow cast by the tents of the elves and Rohirrim.

The hush of night brought no peace to his spirit. Day-warmed stone was rough beneath his clutching hand as he looked toward Osgilath and the ribbon of the Anduin.

Fallen towers and broken walls squatted in grotesque shapes against a backdrop of stars. Osgilath taunted him with memories of comrades lost and lives wasted. Haunted him with visions of Boromir in his floating grave, pale and cold as the depths of winter, passing beneath the city's shadow on the way to the sea.

Aragorn---King Elessar---had requested an audience with Faramir after the welcoming ceremonies had ended. As Amrothos said, Gondor's new king wished to grant Faramir a reward for his part in securing the future of Middle-Earth. The form would take any office of Faramir's choosing---even, if he wished it, ruling prince of Ithilien. Yet all Faramir could think of this night were those who had not survived to partake in the spoils of victory.

Faramir heard the whisper of steps approach and stop beside him. He did not turn, but kept his gaze on the moon-touched landscape.

Éomer's voice was as soft as the spring air. "'Tis hard to look upon these fields. To think of all the Éorlingas who lie beneath this sod, ne'er to return. Of all who paid with their lives, here and on other battlegrounds, for our freedom from the dark lord."

"I led men to their deaths." Faramir forced himself to turn, to see Éomer's face as he made this admission. "Men whose names I did not know---men of this city. Knights of Gondor. My father..."

His breath caught at the memory of that last meeting with Denethor. "My father charged me with retaking the broken city of Osgilath. To restore the glory of former days...to prove myself as worthy of being a son of the steward as my brother Boromir."

"We have all fought in battles where victory was unlikely." Éomer edged closer and lifted a hand.

"Nay!" Faramir pushed away kindness he did not deserve. "It was not _unlikely_ , Éomer---it was _impossible_. Our defeat was certain ere we left the gates of Minas Tirith. Gandalf knew it, Pippin knew it---my father knew it, like as not."

He stalked out his agitation across the courtyard, robes whispering as he whirled and moved back toward Éomer. Shoved his face close enough to share breath. "Those _men_ knew it---all of them---yet they followed me all the same."

Faramir's anger drained away, leaving a bitter taste. He sank into a crouch in the shadow of the wall, his back sliding against the stones. "I cannot help but think that Boromir would not have thrown away the lives of those good men. That _he_ would have stood strong against our father."

"Every leader of the West bears such burdens, Faramir. Faces such questions in the night. What could have been done differently. What might have been." Éomer followed him down, both hands gripping Faramir's shoulders. "And I tell you this: It matters not what Boromir would have done. It matters not what you _might_ have done. Such ponderings aid no one."

Faramir reached out, twisted Éomer's tunic in his fists. Pulled Éomer close enough to bury his face in soft blond strands bleached as silver as Legolas's by the moonlight. He breathed in the scent of leather, horse, and grass. Of sun and wind. Of Éomer. He hid his shame in a whisper. "I cannot help wonder...if I had known those men as I know my own rangers...would I have killed them so easily?"

"You killed no man of Gondor, Faramir." Éomer's arms slid warm and strong around Faramir as they huddled together. "You once...you once bade me ne'er call myself whore, lest all those trapped by circumstance take the name as well. 'Tis the same with you in this."

He pushed free enough to clasp Faramir's face. "You defied your liege lord in setting the Ringbearer free. But when your father sent you to Osgilath, you could not disobey---not with the loss of your brother so fresh a wound upon your spirit."

Éomer's voice roughened, as did his grip on Faramir. "Please, Faramir, take not this guilt. For if the blood of those knights reddens your hands, so must Théodred's death stain mine."

He drew a ragged breath. "If I had but dared stand up to Théoden ere my banishment, mayhap my cousin and all his Riders would still dwell among us."

"Éomer, no, I..." Faramir shook his head at the tension knotting the muscles of Éomer's frame. He sighed. "I cannot promise my thoughts will change, but I will consider your words."

His hands slid to Éomer's shoulders as he shifted to his knees. He now offered comfort where he had accepted such. "I know not all that Rohan suffered in these last years, but I am certain none could fault you in your duty and devotion to your people. You are a good and honorable man, and no doubt will make a good and honorable king."

"Be not so certain of my honor, Faramir."

***************

Éomer pushed himself free, stood and walked to the gap. He stared down at the Rohirrim camp. Wondered what his people would think of him if they knew the secrets he held, the lies he'd agreed to and would continue to live with until the day he died.

Wondered if Faramir would still hold him in such high esteem if Faramir _knew_.

Faramir must have sensed the lowering of mood. He approached slowly, laid a cautious hand upon Éomer's nape. "Why speak thus, Éomer?"

Éomer sighed. He'd wrestled with the question of sharing the knowledge he was now sole keeper of. The only one of that desperate conspiracy left alive. His heart grieved for them still: Dúneara, Théodred, and Dúneald...

And Théoden gone as well, passed into the halls of his forefathers. Never knowing that his line had not ended with Théodred's death.

He turned. Faramir appeared a creature from a dream, crafted of moonlight that softened all edges and cloaked all imperfections in its silvery shine. And yet he knew that Faramir, like all men, was plagued by doubts and fears, faults and vices as numerous as virtues.

Éomer could only hope that Faramir would understand, as he had understood about Grima when first they met. For Éomer's heart demanded that Faramir know him true, know all. "I would have your word, Faramir of Gondor, that you'll ne'er speak to _anyone_ of what I am about to reveal."

Faramir blinked. Did not immediately reply, as his brow furrowed and his expression turned considering. Giving the request---and what he may learn---due weight. Finally he nodded. "I pledge my honor to this silence, Éomer."

"I shall hold you to it, for I place the very future of the Riddermark in your care." Éomer swallowed, braced himself as if for battle. "Eight years ago, I was a captain of the Rohirrim. And I was in love."

He looked toward the White Tree a moment, but was seeing the past. "His name was Dúneald, a warrior strong and true. We had known each other in Aldburg, whilst my parents still lived. When we met again in the eoreds...the friendship of boys had grown into the passion of men."

With a blink he banished Dúneald's face to memory, focused on Faramir. "Such joinings are not forbidden among the Éorlingas, but Grima had already thrown his shadow o'er Edoras. We kept our love secret...as Dúneald's sister Dúneara and my cousin Théodred hid theirs."

Éomer nodded at Faramir's gasp. "Aye, 'twas Théodred who held Dúneara's heart. The four of us oft met and traveled together under the guise of friendship. 'Til one day the secret could be kept no longer."

He leaned against the wall, rubbed at his forehead. Faramir stood still as the stones as Éomer continued his tale. "Théoden had not yet fallen completely under Grima's sway, and worried that Théodred had no heir to the line of Éorl. So he summoned a young maiden from the Westfold, had her brought to Meduseld in hopes of stirring Théodred's interest."

"But Théodred had already sworn to Dúneara?" Faramir guessed.

"Aye. They'd already been wed a fortnight, when we stopped at a village on the way back from inspecting the herds. More still---she carried Théodred's seed." Éomer closed his eyes a moment, remembering. "Théodred meant to announce their union to Théoden King after the feast that night. Until the maid from the Westfold fell into a fit at the height of the celebration. She thrashed and choked, her lips turning blue as foam flecked her mouth."

He looked at Faramir, trying to banish the years-old vision of a life so cruelly taken. "She was poisoned, though none could say with what or how. But I---all four of us saw Grima's face. His eyes gleamed like a snake's that had swallowed the mouse. And we knew that if Théodred claimed Dúneara as wife she would soon meet as horrible an end."

Éomer shuddered as he remembered that terrible night. How Théodred had come to him at dawn, with a desperate plan born of a greater fear. "News had come that same day, that the village we'd visited had been attacked by Orcs. None had survived---including the other witnesses to the wedding. Théodred begged me---begged me to claim Dúneara as my bride, her child as my own. Begged me take her to Aldburg and keep her safe from Grima's machinations."

"And you did." Faramir's voice was barely louder than the whisper of the wind.

"Aye, so I did." Éomer lifted his head. "Dúneara and I took Théoden aside a few days after the maiden's family returned home to bury their kinswoman. He accepted the tale of our wedding easily enough, with Dúneald and Théodred standing as witnesses."

He paused. "Dúneara said not to mention the babe. She had some herb---an Elven remedy few but her womenfolk knew. It somehow lengthened her confinement, made it seem the seed was planted on her wedding night, not a month or more previous."

Éomer shook his head. "'Tis no wonder they named the babe Elfwine...Elf-friend." He gathered courage and held Faramir's gaze. "So now you know, Faramir. I am not so honorable as you would deem me. The Éorlingas do not lie, yet I have done so. I have lived this lie---lived as Dúneara's husband, but was never her mate. The children are of my blood, aye, but of Théodred's seed."

"But what of you and Dúneald?" Faramir leaned forward, gaze intent. "Did your love hold true ere he was lost?"

Éomer shook his head. Wished for ale to ease his parched throat, to banish the lump that formed within it as he thought of the one he had lost long ere death had laid its claim. "Dúneald...he agreed to the charade, but would ne'er come near me again. Said he could not risk discovery, his sister's dishonor."

The laugh that escaped his lips held no mirth and much bitterness. "E'en Théodred and Dúneara's continued meetings, the births of the other children...naught would sway him. So we lived in Aldburg, together yet apart, 'til their fateful trip to Meduseld."

Éomer reached out, dared clasp one of Faramir's hands between his own. "Know this, Faramir: There's been no other in my heart but Dúneald...'til you."

So many years, untouched and alone. He could only hope Faramir would not turn away from him, condemn him to a lifetime of nights wondering what might have been...

***************

Thoughts wove dizzily throughout Faramir's mind. Of how Éomer and his cousin had woven such a tapestry of secrets and lies...that Éomer had never wed, that the children he raised had in truth been sired by another...it was beyond his imaginings.

But of this much he was certain: Those acts were performed out of love and a desire to protect. And they had cost Éomer dear.

Even now, lines of apprehension cast shadows upon Éomer's face that warred with the hopeful glow in eyes turned dark in the night. As Faramir continued to regard him, that light began to fade as regret settled upon Éomer's features. He began to step back, releasing Faramir's hand.

That could not be borne. Faramir grabbed Éomer's wrist, yanked him close once more. He claimed Éomer's lips, a barely remembered feeling and flavor. His other hand sank into Éomer's hair, tangling into the strands to prevent Éomer's escape.

Not that Éomer was making effort to evade Faramir's embrace. Instead his whole body shuddered as a sigh escaped his mouth into Faramir's. His free arm slid around Faramir's waist, pulling Faramir closer still as Faramir's lips and tongue reacquainted themselves with territory that he had known so briefly, it seemed so long ago.

Faramir released Éomer's wrist. As his hand brushed Éomer's back he felt Éomer flinch.

He pulled back to search Éomer's face. "Do your wounds still trouble you, Éomer?"

Éomer vanquished the moon itself with the bright blaze of his smile. "Faramir, I know 'tis but a giddy dream, yet at this moment I feel as though naught could trouble me e'er again."


	9. Chapter 9

Éomer's back itched. Right between his shoulder blades. He dearly wanted to rub against the bark of the White Tree to relieve the irritation.

But he didn't. Instead, he smiled down at what he could see of Faramir's sleeping face, resting against his shoulder. The messy fall of auburn hair was just starting to gleam in the rising sun.

'Twas the end of a strange and wondrous night. The moon and stars had promenaded across the sky unnoticed as he stood wrapped in Faramir's embrace. Yet even in their most passionate kisses they had kept their touches chaste---it seemed they both deemed the bond between them too new for greater intimacies.

At some point hunger and thirst sent them into the Citadel. They'd giggled like children as they crept along secret corridors, Faramir's hand clasped warm in his.

Their entry into the main kitchen startled the four Holbytla in the middle of a raid. He chuckled again at the memory of their expressions as they froze in place, Merry on Sam's shoulders as Merry reached for some delicacy placed on a high shelf.

They were quick enough to share their spoils once assured that Éomer and Faramir had similar plans for the contents of the royal larder. All six swiftly sat down to a feast of leavings: unused loaves, tarts, and rounds of cheese; joints not yet shaved of all their succulent meat; vegetables sharp with brine or fragrant with spices; late-autumn fruits wrinkled with age but still sweet upon the tongue.

And ale---not the rich brew of the Eorlingas, of course, but passable. Even Faramir had filled a tankard, claiming the rough-hewn table no place for "mincing Gondorian wines".

Talk had passed almost as quiet as the sleeping populace. Each one had a tale to recount of his personal journey, of striving and failing and rising to once more battle the darkness. For Éomer---mayhap for them all---a kind of peace had settled with the telling.

After their repast, Faramir and he had returned to sprawl beneath the White Tree together to await the dawn.

When Faramir had faded into sleep, Éomer had at first watched each breath and flicker of eyelid, still unnerved by Faramir's depiction of the time drifting in the space between worlds. Too easily could Éomer imagine Faramir forever lost there. Too vividly did he remember almost losing Éowyn to that same dark place.

But she was healing, if not yet well. And Faramir...

When Éomer looked down again his gaze was met by eyes as blue and bright as the sky in high summer. His whisper was as soft as the dawn. "Good morn, Faramir."

"A good morn, indeed." Faramir sat up with a soft smile, stroked the backs of his fingers along the line of Éomer's beard.

Éomer shivered under the touch. His skin was still unused to such contact---so long yearned for. He entwined his fingers with Faramir's, rested their joined hands on his bent knee.

Faramir's hand was less weathered than his own, though strong and callused from years of work with bow and sword.

"If you were but a simple Ranger of Gondor," Éomer mused, "And I a mere Rider of the Mark, I would plight my troth to you this very day." He sighed. "But we are not ordinary men."

***************

"It is no boast to say it." Faramir shifted, regretfully retrieving his hand from Éomer's hold to brace himself on the dew-moist grass. "Our blood and births determined our fates from the very moments we first drew breath."

He leaned in to brush a kiss against Éomer's lips. When he moved back, he studied the man he had lost his heart to almost unknowing. Bold bones crafted Éomer's features, yet there were hints of softness in the long blond mane, in the fullness of his lips. But most in Éomer's eyes, so clear and honest, green and golden-brown in the dawn.

Faramir could not help but steal another kiss. He withdrew a small span to let his murmur fill the air between them. "But know that I would welcome your suit, and bid the banns be read before the sun reached its zenith."

Éomer let his head fall against the trunk. His breath gusted out. "Yet duty compels us to part, instead, with naught acknowledged save between the two of us in secluded trysts."

He pulled up a blade of new grass, studied it as his brows drew together. "And yet in truth, Faramir, I cannot voice a greater complaint. Moments come when I think 'tis unseemly...to feel so blessed by your regard when my king and prince ne'er lived to see their homeland free from the forces of darkness."

When he once again held Faramir's gaze, Faramir could see the shadows of events past and the burdens that now rested upon Éomer. He felt their like upon his own spirit. He moved closer, slid an arm around broad shoulders. "Mayhap it is best, then, to keep this quiet for a time...only between us and those who would not begrudge such joy even in the midst of sorrow."

"Aye." Éomer leaned in, a welcome weight against Faramir's side. "I must tell Éowyn---I'll not keep more secrets from her than I already bear."

"You may find she already knows, or strongly susupects." Faramir could feel heat rising in his cheeks, cast his eyes away from Éomer's reaction. "I was not the most subtle in my queries about a certain Marshal of the Mark."

"'Tis well," Éomer murmured as his fingers slipped beneath Faramir's jaw, turning Faramir's face to reveal the blush. Éomer dipped forward to brush a kiss across the bloom, his lips soft and cool against Faramir's burning skin. "My sister ne'er reacts well to being kept from private counsels. That you've offered some clue to our true dealings may spare my hide the lash of her tongue." The breath of Éomer's chuckle stirred Faramir's hair as Éomer drew back to settle against the tree.

Faramir smiled at the vision, yet his mirth swiftly faded at the memory of Éomer's flesh so torn and wounded by the whip. Faramir's free hand strayed to Éomer's shoulder. He captured a lock of sun-kissed gold, twining the strand about one finger.

Part of him wondered if others might see him as unmanly, to be so content with the simple pleasure of Éomer's company. With brief touches and heartfelt words. They had kept their passions reined in, not allowing desire to overwhelm their sense of who and where they were.

Even now Faramir could easily picture Éomer spread upon the coverlet in his room, his golden warrior once more bared to his gaze and this time eager for his touch. But Éomer was not someone to be tumbled---swiftly plundered and easily abandoned once the heat between them was spent.

Nay, when it came time for Éomer and him to come together, Faramir wanted _time_. Time to explore his lover, his love. To learn the shapes and textures, scents and tastes of one he would as deeply share himself with. And for such a chance, he could wait.

So for now he would enjoy this gift of quiet time with Éomer, for he would miss it once the Rider had gone. "When do you depart for Rohan?"

"Too soon, yet not soon enough." Éomer's somber tone added a dimness to the brightening day. "As swiftly as men and mounts can be made ready. 'Twill be hard work to make right all the harm the wild men and Saruman's beasts have visited upon the land. We must make haste if we would ensure the Eorlingas survive the coming winter, though it be more than two seasons hence."

"Gondor will do its part to repay Rohan's sacrifice, Éomer---Aragorn will not let your people suffer." Faramir shifted closer, as if he could protect the younger man from all worry and care. "Will you write to me, ere the winter snows force our messengers to abandon the road to huddle at their hearth fires?"

"Aye, though I give fair warning: My clumsy prose will be a poor companion to your flourishes of word and quill." Éomer looked down now, studying his fingers as if to already envision the stains of ink upon them.

"I have a boon to ask in return, Faramir: The Eorlingas will again ride to the White City in the heat of summer to bear Théoden King to his rest." He looked up, hope and more shimmering in his eyes. "Come back with us, to the Mark. Dwell among us for a time. And there decide if Meduseld is a place where you may make your home."

Confusion knit Faramir's brow. "Already my heart is yours, Éomer. Of course I---"

"But I'm not the only one who'll have a claim upon you." Éomer shifted to his knees. "My children, land, and people will have their shares as well. For you'll be Prince Consort, and must rule as Underking if I am gone to war or have passed ere Elfwine can take the throne. 'Tis not as if we _were_ mere Ranger and Rider, free to return to Gondor if Rohan is not to your taste."

Éomer launched to his feet, hand waving away Faramir's assurances ere they could be uttered. "No matter how dearly I wish it, I cannot take your words as truth, son of Gondor, 'til you have lived among us and sampled the life that would be yours. I _cannot_."

He stopped, and the plea in his expression struck Faramir's heart. "Faramir, I could not bear to have you speak a promise now, then reach the Mark and know 'tis not a place for you. To have you withdraw a troth made here---or worse, have you keep to your vow but hate each day you dwell beneath our skies."

His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "Like you, Morwen of Lossarnach shared the blood of the Númenor. She loved the man who would become king of the Mark, but cursed the time she spent upon the plains. Always she longed for the vales of her true home. And I..."

Faramir rose, but stilled and stayed silent as Éomer whirled and once more began his pacing, a stallion's grace and strength in every move.

"I cannot help but think of all we Eorlingas have _not_. No grand cities such as this fearsome pile of stones." Éomer's frown grew with each word. "No great chambers of books and scrolls---most of our lore is kept in song, in our people's hearts. And there are few trees within an easy walk of Meduseld for you to wander among. 'Tis a vastly different life. One that----"

"One that I _shall_ make my own." Faramir stepped into Éomer's path, hands gripping Éomer's arms to bring them to a halt. He slid his palms up to tangle in Éomer's hair. "You need have no fear."

He kissed Éomer, but felt the tension in the lips beneath his. He sighed and rested his forehead against his chosen mate's. "I cannot say I was not warned of your stubborness. Very well. We'll not speak of such plans again until I have beheld the land of the horselords with mine own eyes."

Faramir could feel the easing of Éomer's stance. He smiled and stroked a thumb beneath Éomer's ear, felt the warrior shiver at the touch. "Ride swiftly home, Éomer King, and swiftly return. For I shall count the days until I look upon your face again."

************************************************************  
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Éomer leaned forward in the saddle to scratch beneath Firefoot's braided mane. He chuckled as the gray stallion whickered his approval.

"'Tis good to see you smile again." Éowyn brought Windfola close as the horses fell into step together. Though still pale, her face now glowed with a freshness that mirrored the fields awakening to spring.

"You, as well." Éomer switched the reins to his other hand. He tugged off his glove and reached out to his sister, still too aware of how close he'd come to losing her.

She did the same, the sling gone from her wounded shield arm. Her hand still held a slight chill; Éomer rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.

They were more than half a day gone from the Mundberg. When they'd found a stretch of road not pockmarked by the crossing of Sauron's forces, the Rohirrim had given the horses their heads.

'Twas a grand feeling---to have the wind on his face and Firefoot flying across the land. To see Éowyn leaning tight against her mount's neck, urging Windfola to keep to Firefoot's pace. To know that for this moment they were free of all care.

But now they were ambling along, cooling their mounts ere they selected a camp for the night. Though the call of the Riddermark was strong within him, Éomer would not overtax horses or riders on the journey home. Many still bore the wounds of battles hard fought and harder won.

Others who could not yet make the journey would stay in Gondor 'til the summer, regaining strength. Still more would ne'er return to the land of their birth.

"Nay, Éomer. Now your good humor is gone, more swiftly than the sun behind the clouds." Éowyn tightened her grip, shaking his arm. "You'll have troubles soon enough without dwelling o'ermuch on them ere we even see the plains."

Her expression turned sly. "You should divert your thoughts with speech...mayhap you can tell me what passed 'twixt you and a certain brave ranger?"

Éomer's smile returned, even as he felt the blood rise to his cheeks with betraying heat. "Aragorn and I spent much time in council, aye, but naught else occurred but planning for our realms 'til we met again."

Éowyn's laugh was a wondrous thing. Moreso since her eyes seemed to hold no shadow of her disappointed yearning for Gondor's new king. "Nay, brother, 'tis no use to pretend I meant the Heir of Isildur."

She leaned over, her loose hair falling forward to shield them from eavesdroppers. "Merry and Pippin spun me a most interesting yarn of a nighttime meeting in the Citadel kitchens. A tale of swift glances and shy touches 'twixt two men, and how 'the very air shimmered with the light o'love around them'."

Her sharp gaze remained fixed on his face as she straightened, a quick toss of her head sending her mane rippling down her back. "Merry bet me a keg of ale you'd be wed ere the year is out."

Éomer's mouth dropped open. For a moment he could merely blink, then mastered himself enough to click his jaw shut. His throat tightened, eyes seeking any hint of discontent in his sister's expression. "So this tale... it did not displease you?"

Éowyn's expression softened as she beheld her brother with a liquid glimmer in her gaze. "Oh, Éomer...know you not that your joy is mine?" She twined their fingers together. "'Twas clear from my first meeting with Faramir that you had earned his regard. He'd have spoken of naught else but you if he'd not been bred and raised to Gondorian politeness."

He could scarce believe that Éowyn would accept the notion of Faramir and him together with such calm. "Then you'd not find our communion...unnatural?" The Eorlingas were not so disapproving as Gondorians of joinings 'twixt those of the same sex, but there were those among their people who believed such relations were best relegated to whispers and shadowed corners.

"'Tis no shame to hold the heart of so fine a man, Éomer. And to know that you would once again have love in your life...that means far more to me than the naggings of long-nosed biddies and or the grumblings of withered old men." She looked away, _her_ cheeks now pinkening. "It gives me hope, that all of us can begin anew."

"Éowyn..." Éomer cleared his throat, began again. "Éowyn, I promise you'll have your new beginning. Know that your life is your own. I'll not hold you to Meduseld if 'tis not your will to dwell there. I...your happiness is all I wish for."

Her eyes held gratitude---and a hint of steel that warned that the Slayer of the Witch King was a woman to be reckoned with. "I'll keep you to that, brother."

He nodded and gave Éowyn's hand a final squeeze ere releasing her. He turned his attention to the terrain. Though many heartaches---and headaches---faced him upon his return to the Mark, he now felt truly ready to go home.


	10. Chapter 10

Faramir shifted in his chair, staring at the empty page in front of him on the worktable. He tapped the feathered end of his quill against his lips, the soft brush reminding him of the feel of Éomer's beard against his skin. With a sigh, he counted the days that must pass ere he'd see his horselord again.

"Penning odes to your White Lady? Or mayhap a letter pouring out the fulsome bleatings of your lovelorn heart?" Amrothos sauntered across the chamber to lean over Faramir's shoulder. "They're not yet two days' ride from the city, cousin. On a fast horse, you could yourself deliver the missive to her dainty hand ere they cross Gondor's border."

The snide tone had Faramir setting aside his quill, sitting back and giving his cousin full attention. His eyes narrowed as he watched Roth move to a window, the casement thrown wide to welcome the spring morn. Roth crossed his arms as he rested a shoulder against the stone, gray eyes brooding over the view of the Pelennor.

Faramir kept his tone mild. "Your tongue cuts as sharp as your blade, Roth. Have you some quarrel with love?"

"More fool, me, if I did." The muttered answer was as stiff as Roth's frame. "For love will hold sway in all of Middle-Earth now that war is done."

Faramir frowned, sensing a greater disquiet brewing within his cousin than first assumed. "Is it some objection to Éowyn herself, then? I had not noticed any ill feeling those times you were in each other's company." He wondered if Roth and Éowyn had clashed, unknown to their families. It would be an unfortunate development; Éomer was good friends with Imrahil and his sons.

"Nay!" Roth swung to face Faramir, fists clenching at his sides. "None could find fault with so fair and brave a lady."

Faramir's brows lifted at the vehement reply. He rose and settled himself on a corner of the table. "I must conclude, then, that _I_ am the cause of your ill-humor." He spread his hands, hiding a wince at the memories of the many times he'd disappointed Denethor.

But then a vision of Éomer's loving smile flashed across his mind's eye. Éomer, who spoke of how honored he was by Faramir's regard. Faramir lifted his head, equanimity restored. "Pray tell, what have I done to earn your disfavor?"

The hunching of Roth's shoulders confirmed Faramir's suspicions. Roth unfolded his arms and set his palms on the stone beneath the window. He stared out, refusing to meet Faramir's gaze. "'Tis not so much what you have done, Faramir, as what you have gained."

Roth sighed, his head dropping. "You have the regard of---of many. Of Rohan. Of every denizen of the city, including our new-crowned king. A world of possibilities lie to hand. _You_ need only pick and choose what rewards will shape your life to be."

Faramir checked the urge to approach and lay a comforting arm about Roth. He doubted his jealous kinsman would welcome the gesture. 

But he could feel his own eyes sting with sudden understanding. How well Faramir knew the ache of being forgotten, lost in the shadows cast by brighter lights. "And you begrudge me these joys?" 

"Nay." Roth straightened and shook his head. Then he turned to Faramir with a shrug of his shoulders. "Not truly. But envy pierces me more deeply than any bolt fired by our enemies." 

"And yet what you envy is as much illusion as any trick performed by Mithrandir." Faramir picked up the quill and turned it idly between his fingers, his gaze upon it. "I know that in the taverns and market squares I am now hailed as a beloved son of the city, but these people know me as little as I know them. Most of my life was spent with the rangers of Ithilien. In truth, it seems people clamor after the shade of Boromir they see in my face and form." 

He looked up. "As for Aragorn...our king has gifted me with his friendship, aye, and I am most ready to return it. I shall ever be grateful that he agreed to spare me the title of Steward." 

"Aragorn ended the stewardship at your request?" Roth blinked, then a strange and sudden fury twisted his features. "You _refused_ your inheritance---rights and responsibilities that most men can only dream of?" 

He leapt forward and seized Faramir's tunic. "Know you what I would give to possess what you so blithely tossed aside?" 

Faramir dropped the quill. His hands closed upon Roth's wrists. "Nay, I know not. Perchance you would tell me?" 

__

***************

The prince gripped him tighter for a moment. Faramir kept still until Roth had mastered himself and stepped back.

Roth held his fists in front of him as if he faced some invisible foe. "We were not oft together these last years, cousin, so I know not your impression of me. But I can tell you how others still see me: A boy playing at being a man, one who gives more thought to drinking, dicing, and dancing than his own future."

He returned to the wall, slumped against it. "But what future did I have? I tell you, Faramir, that it is a hard task being the third prince of Dol Amroth. Elphir is heir, Erchiron our protector both on sea and on land. Lothiriel has ever been the better diplomat, and I..."

Roth's sigh made him seem far older than his years. "Part of me welcomed this war. Fighting is all I have been trained for, it seems---all that has been expected of me beyond a witty turn of phrase. I thought I might find glory on the battlefield."

Faramir crossed the room to lean beside Roth. "And that was not the case?"

"Nay." Roth turned his head to meet Faramir's gaze, half his face lit by the morning sun and the rest cast in shadow. "I fought well enough, aye, and was lauded for my valor. But I did naught of note---I was merely one of many, and luckier than most in that I returned from battle with both my health and my family intact."

He moved again, restless steps driving him from door to hearth to table. "Unlike so many of the Rohirrim. I spent much time with them..." He paused in memory. "In the march to and from Morannon. At Cormallen, and here at Minas Tirith as they healed."

Faramir could not help his fond smile. "They have a way about them, do they not?"

"That they do." Roth's expression brightened with the ghost of a grin. It soon faded. "They lack all pretense and artifice. To hear their words is to know the truth of their minds and hearts. They care not for titles or pedigrees---the accidents of birth or blood---but judge a man's worth by his deeds."

Faramir could only nod, but his brows drew together in confusion. "But Roth, what has this to do with the dark cloud that seems to hover over your thoughts?"

"I wonder what they will think of me, now that peace is won." Roth ran a hand through his hair. "I've asked my father what I can do to aid the rebuilding. Tried to make him understand that I am not the indolent prince anymore."

Bitterness twisted Roth's mouth. "But he will have none of it. Sends me away as if I were a troublesome child underfoot." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "Can you now see why I envy you so, Faramir? You _matter_. You are respected, and...and loved."

"I do understand, cousin, more than I can ever convey." Faramir could easily recall the awkward youth he himself had been. Stumbling, trying so hard to please. To be the man that his father expected him to be.

He might have shrunk into himself, crushed beneath the weight of Denethor's disdain, without Boromir's steadfast support. His brother had added his voice to Faramir's to make certain Faramir joined the rangers of Ithilien instead of the knights of Minas Tirith. To have a chance at building a life away from Boromir's larger-than-life presence.

The rangers had been Faramir's salvation. Companions who were little acquainted with Boromir and cared less. Tasks that spoke to Faramir's strengths, that let him excel in his own way and in his own time. A place and purpose that was Faramir's own.

Faramir sent a silent thanks to Boromir, the gallant knight no doubt lounging with his fellow warriors in the halls of their forebears. His brother had gifted him with a life of his own making; he could do no less for his cousin.

He tilted his head, studying Amrothos and seeing in him the ghost of his own uncertainties. "Perchance...do you truly wish to serve the people of Gondor, Roth? Enough to leave your city by the sea?"

"Aye, Faramir." Roth's shoulders squared in determination as his eyes lit with hope. "It matters not to me where I dwell. I wish to have a place---a purpose of my own."

The painfully familiar words sealed Faramir's decision. He pushed himself off the wall. Laid his hands upon Roth's shoulders, holding the gray eyes. "Then you will have it. This I swear."

"Thank you, Faramir." The words were quiet, but not so the feelings behind them.

Faramir smiled and clapped Roth's shoulder ere releasing him. "There is one matter more we must discuss: Éowyn of Rohan. It seems to me you are not indifferent to the slayer of the Witch King."

"I---I---" Roth's sudden blush betrayed him. "I cannot lie to you, cousin. It is only...she is so very different from the maidens of Gondor. I could not help but fall under her spell."

He stiffened, his mien completely serious. "But I swear I will do naught to come betwixt you and your love."

"I am glad to hear it," Faramir murmured. "But I fear you have also fallen victim to another illusion, though rest assured you are not the only one to do so."

Roth shook his head. "I understand you not."

"You have offered me a glimpse into your heart this day, Roth. I can do naught but return the trust you have shown me." Faramir took a breath and braced himself. "It is true that I spent much time with Éowyn while she healed from her wounds. But that was naught more than the companionship of friends."

Faramir held Roth's gaze, keenly aware of how poorly most of Gondor would view his choice. But it mattered not. He was beloved by a good and brave man, and returned the feeling in full measure.

He relished the words that waited upon his tongue. They felt good, _right_...and he was proud to say them. "My heart finds its joy not in the White Lady, but in Rohan's Golden King."

***************

Roth blinked. Blinked again. Then his forehead crinkled. "Éomer? You are...enamored of...Éomer?"

"Aye." Faramir felt the tension easing with the admission. "From near the first moment we met."

Sunlight shifted on the waves of Roth's hair as he slowly shook his head. "But...but you and Éowyn..."

"Are no more than friends---or mayhap siblings-to-be." Faramir searched for some sign of Roth's true feelings. "What think you of this?"

Another blush stained Roth's cheeks as his eyes cast themselves to the far corner of the room. "I...I know not, Faramir. Ever we are told that a man who would couple with another of his own kind is...but I cannot think such of you. Or of Éomer."

Roth seemed to shake himself free of confusion. "I have heard of such bonds among the Rohirrim. They hold men in no lesser regard for these desires. Whom they love seems to hold no weight when measured against _how_ they love---with honor."

He nodded to himself. "Éomer is a friend, you are my cousin. You have both proven yourselves good men and true." Roth gave the smallest of smiles as he at last met Faramir's gaze. He rested a hand upon Faramir's shoulder. "I can do naught but wish you well, Faramir."

Relief stretched wide Faramir's smile. "I thank you, Roth." He leaned in to confide, "You are one of only a handful who know of this. I trust you to keep our secret, for now."

"I shall." Roth released Faramir with a nod. His eyes brightened. "I must thank you again, for you know not how much your bond with Éowyn preyed upon my thoughts."

"I think I have some small inkling." Faramir chuckled, but in fondness rather than derision. He shoved Roth toward the door. "Get you gone. I intend to send a courier after the Rohan party this very day, so you had best be as swift of pen as you are of wit if you wish me to include a missive from you to the White Lady's 'dainty hand'."

"You think she would hear from me?" Roth near-quivered in eagerness, reminding Faramir of a puppy who'd caught sight of a favorite toy just out of reach.

"It cannot hurt your suit to get to know Éowyn this way ere you meet again." Faramir walked back to his chair. "But know I will tuck your letter in mine own to Éomer, and _he_ like as not shall peruse every word ere he gives it to his sister. _If_ he deems it suitable for her eyes. I suggest you be most circumspect in your writing."

As he settled into his chair he heard the slap of Roth's boots upon the stone as the prince dashed down the corridor. Faramir grinned as he once more took up scroll and quill, his greeting to Éomer already forming in his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

Faramir took a moment to compose himself ere he turned the corner to approach the main door of the royal suite. That they were meeting in Aragorn's private apartment---rather than the larger, more ornate gathering places of the new-crowned king---boded well for the coming conversation.

He would welcome any and every good omen, uncertain as he was regarding Aragorn. Particularly Aragorn's reaction to Faramir's plans for the future. They had worked companionably this last fortnight in the assessment of Gondor and rebuilding of Minas Tirith, but their conversations had not oft strayed from the business of the realm.

Except for one night, when Faramir had asked Aragorn to speak of Boromir's time on the quest...and how that journey ended. The honesty---the regret and sorrow---in Aragorn's words had gone far in earning Faramir's trust and respect.

He was certain now that he had been right to end the office of Steward. Gondor would be in good hands.

With a nod of thanks to the guard who held open the door, Faramir stepped into Aragorn's sitting room. The space was large, of course, but the furniture groupings, fresh wall hangings, and carpets showed some attempts to add warmth and comfort. No doubt in anticipation of the arrival of Arwen, the elf who would be Aragorn's wife and Gondor's queen.

Aragorn rose from a carved chair behind a broad table littered with scrolls. He crossed the room and rested a hand upon Faramir's forearm. "Come, let us take our ease while we speak of the days to come." He gestured toward the hearth, where cushioned chairs sat beside small tables set with goblets, decanters, and plates of savories and sweets.

Mithrandir--- _Gandalf_ \---and Legolas were already ensconced. The elf offered a graceful nod, while the Istar merely stroked a hand down his snowy beard. Gandalf's eyes held a twinkle of mischief that Faramir knew of old.

Imrahil also approached from his place near a window. "Yes, nephew, your future is much discussed in the city's higher circles." The sharpness of his gaze seemed at odds with the mildness of his tone.

Faramir swallowed, maintaining his calm façade as he followed Aragorn. He forced himself to slide back in his chair until he was fully seated. Hoping to present the appearance of composure if he could not truly achieve it.

Aragorn settled into a graceful sprawl. He could have been a Dúnedain ranger lounging upon a hillock, but for the cleanliness of his person and the mithril thread and fine jewels encrusting his tunic. "So, Faramir, have you decided upon Gondor's reward for your service to the realm?"

Imrahil frowned as he sat and adjusted his robes. "Indeed, my liege, the situation has remained unsettled for far too long. The people wonder why Faramir was not named Steward in his father's stead the day you entered the White City. Nor declared prince of Ithilien when you announced plans to reclaim that territory with the help of Legolas and his kin."

Faramir thought it likely that only the _nobles_ had wondered. The common folk of the city were far more concerned with their lives and livelihoods in the wake of the war. "And yet, uncle, I cannot help but be grateful for Aragorn's circumspection in this matter."

He lifted his chin and met Aragorn's waiting gaze. "As the title I wish for is not one the king of Gondor can bestow."

***************

Gandalf suddenly sat up, the mischief in his eyes now plain upon his features. "Prince Consort of Rohan---it seems Éomer King's interest in you is not unrequited."

Faramir's face warmed, as did his heart. "It is requited most fervently, I assure you."

Aragorn shook his head. "I should have suspected as much myself---Éomer was fulsome in his praise of your valor and compassion. And at Cormallen, most keen to have Frodo and Sam tell of their meeting with you."

"What is this you speak of?" Imrahil slowly rose to his full height, gray eyes kindling and lip beginning to curl. "Prince _Consort_? Of Rohan? Do you mean to say that you and Éomer have---"

"No! Not yet." Faramir stood as well, aware that his own fists had clenched and his breaths shortened. "But Éomer King has invited me to return to Rohan with him come summer. To see if life there suits me---to see if _we_ would suit ere any trothplighting takes place."

"Trothplighting?" Imrahil barked a laugh. "You seek to hang a bridal veil on the rutting of two stags?" His hand reached for the sword that did not hang from his hip in these peaceful surroundings.

With a snarl he flung himself away from the company and stalked to the hearth. "To think I almost offered my daughter to that barbarian piece of filth! That---"

"Enough!" Aragorn's stern voice struck sharp as a blade, leaving silence in its wake. He rose in turn and crossed to lay a hand upon Imrahil's tense shoulder. "Imrahil, I understand that this is not the usual way of things in Gondor---"

"It is more than _unusual_." Imrahil stressed the word with a jerk of his body that turned him to face Aragorn. "It is unnatural. An abomination of the worst sort."

Faramir stood frozen in place, Imrahil's every disdainful word landing like a blow upon his spirit. He had known, always, how his father would likely react to news of Faramir's true nature, but to be met with such loathing from his beloved uncle...

"The Éorlingas do not believe so," Gandalf pointed out with admirable calm. His glance at Faramir offered sympathy along with an apologetic lift of one shoulder.

Legolas leaned forward. "Nor do the elves. Some peoples of Middle-Earth measure the quality of love not by the bodies of the participants, but rather by their conduct. Both Faramir and Éomer have proven their worth during the darkest of days."

The elf stood and stepped up to Faramir, the hint of a smile softening his features. "Although I shall regret your absence in the restoration of Ithilien, I cannot think of any title that would bring you greater joy than husband to Éomer King."

Faramir nodded in gratitude ere Legolas returned to his chair. Although still smarting from Imrahil's words, some tension eased at this assurance that Legolas, at least, did not wish mere duty to bind Faramir to Ithilien.

Imrahil shook his head. "Éomer King will find his standing in Gondor much diminished if this fool plan comes to pass. It is said that a man who would lay with another is naught more than---"

"Choose your words with care," Aragorn growled. After a moment he sighed as he stepped away and once more sank into his seat. "Imrahil, you are a prince and trusted friend. But know that it brings me no small distress to hear you thus denigrate Éomer, a fellow king and a man whom I have gladly embraced as a brother."

"To say naught of how this must affect your nephew." Gandalf set aside his goblet. "I do not dispute that some desires cause harm and must be condemned, but surely this is not one of them. What damage will come to Faramir if he follows the promptings of his heart?"

***************

Imrahil made a visible effort to master himself. He took a moment to smooth both his robes and his expression. "Faramir seeks a bond that by its very nature is barren. He will have no children to comfort him in the twilight of his life."

Faramir found himself shaking his head ere his uncle finished. "Éomer has three sons and a daughter to raise. I have no doubt he means to include me in their care." Ere those children were born, Éomer had accepted responsibility for them. Had loved them without regard to their parentage; Faramir would do no less.

"But they will not be of your seed, Faramir." Imrahil stepped forward now. "You are the caretaker of a long and rich family history. I cannot bear to think that you would now _choose_ to kill your family tree with no more concern than an axeman chopping kindling."

"Siring a child was Boromir's charge as first born and my father's favorite." Faramir wavered at the sudden stab of grief as his brother's name passed his lips.

But he firmed his stance and met Imrahil's gaze. "My brother reached twoscore years without taking the first step toward fulfilling that task. I cannot help but think that he, too, agreed that the line of Stewards should end with the sons of Denethor."

The pinching of Imrahil's brows echoed the tightening of his tone. "You are a man of wealth and property, nephew. Surely you recognize your duty to ensure that legacy passes to the next generation."

"For that I do not need a child, uncle---only an heir." Once more certain of his ground, Faramir turned toward Aragorn with a bow. "My liege, mayhap you had some plans for me. And had I not met Éomer, I would no doubt have fulfilled my part, served Gondor until my dying breath."

He straightened. "But Éomer and I _have_ met, and I now see Gondor as the place of my past, and Rohan as the land of my future. From this realm---from you---all I would ask is your leave to go where my heart yearns. And to name Amrothos of Dol Amroth as my heir, both to my current holdings and to the rule and title of Prince of Ithilien."

Silence and startled faces greeted his pronouncement, though Gandalf had an air of satisfaction about him as if Faramir had done no more than expected.

"Legolas?" Aragorn looked toward the elf. "Think you that the whelp will serve? Ithilien will need a ruler from the race of men, though you well know your people are welcome to dwell there 'til Gondor passes into the mists of memory."

Again Legolas's slight smile bloomed. "I am certain I will find the young prince a most agreeable ally."

"If naught else, you're sure to have plenty of chatter 'round the supper table. _Plenty_ ," Gandalf remarked with a chuckle.

Aragorn's gaze warmed as he turned back to Faramir. "My friend, 'tis little enough you ask in return for years of steadfast loyalty and perilous service. It will be as you request."

Faramir had not yet managed to relax ere his uncle crossed to once more stand in front of him. Strangely, the calm of Imrahil's expression stirred disquiet in Faramir's breast. Mayhap because it seemed to reflect not the serene stillness of a lake at peace, but the hard set of stone.

"I tell you now, Faramir, that this scheme will not succeed." Imrahil's chin lifted, his sharp features seeming more elfin---more forbidding---than ever in memory. "You may seek my favor by granting my son this unasked-for bounty. But know this: Whilst I shall accede to my liege's commands in this matter, I shall never forget nor forgive the shame you bring upon my family by your vile copulation with Rohan's king."

Imrahil slowly shook his head. "Your father oft told me how he would have traded your life for your mother's---my dear sister's---if given the choice and chance."

He paused. "At this, I cannot help but think the bargain might have been a good one. Until you cast aside this depraved folly and take up your duties as a man and a son of Gondor, you are no longer my kin."

Faramir slowly sank into his chair as he watched Imrahil depart.


	12. Chapter 12

Faramir could sense his body swaying slightly in his chair. His thoughts raced unchecked through his mind, a mad whirl of memories and questions all overlaid with loss. Imrahil was a man of unflinching convictions---it seemed unlikely that his views on this would change ere Éomer returned to Minas Tirith. Or ever.

He sighed and glanced at his companions. "My apologies for..." His words trailed off as he spread his hands.

Aragorn offered a smile. "Apology is not necessary, Faramir, for you have not given offense."

The assurance did not lessen Faramir's unease. "Think you he is right? Will Éomer and Rohan suffer for my acceptance of his suit?"

"Not by any action or omission of mine. I meant it: Éomer is kin. As to the views of the nobles or populace, I cannot say---I've not walked long among the people of Gondor." Aragorn looked to Gandalf. "Would you share your thoughts on this?"

Ere Gandalf could answer, the door slammed open with a bang that had everyone jumping---save Legolas, of course.

"Gah! Those Hobbits!" Gimli stormed up to the others, his twinkling eyes belying his aggrieved expression. "Mark my words, Aragorn, the city will not have a bean or slice of bread to spare if you mean to keep those wolflings 'til summer. They could fair eat and drink even a _dwarf_ to a standstill."

Legolas arched a fine blond brow. "Have you given up the game then, Gimli?"

"Merely postponed it to another day, elf." The dwarf levered himself into Imrahil's abandoned seat. Despite the distance between his heels and the floor, there was no sense of the ridiculous about him. Only satiation, as he cast an indifferent eye over the offerings and sprawled with a hand over his belly. "'Twas decided we must begin again, as a bit of pipeweed would not go amiss at a contest of such distinction."

"Indeed," Gandalf intoned with appropriate gravity. "It would be best to give the kitchen staff some time to prepare for the devouring of their larder---and for the securing of an appropriate quantity of ale."

"Gondor's ale is as weak as river water." Gimli's grumble ended with a hopeful gaze turned to the company. "Think you Éomer will bring some stout Rohan brew with him when he returns?"

Faramir sighed. "I fear he will have other matters to concern him."

"And so that brings us back to my part." Gandalf sat straighter in his seat. "I have found the common folk of the city tend to have their uproar and then return to their lives. So like as not they will merely gossip for a few turns of the moon ere they're done chewing over such a tasty scandal. But as to the nobles..."

He stroked a hand through his beard. "Imrahil will not be alone in his opinion. Under the rule of the stewards, Gondor's rarefied sense of propriety has become like the stones of the White City itself. It will not yield easily. More so when a leading member of 'polite society' breaks free of his prison."

Gandalf paused to reclaim his goblet. "And yet even they cannot blithely dismiss their debt to their northern neighbor. The Rohirrim---most importantly Éomer---have proven their worth and integrity. He and his kin honored in blood and steel the old treaty. Rode to Gondor's aid, even after Denethor had all but abandoned them to their own fate."

He nodded to himself. "So I think they will offer no greater assault than words, Faramir. Even then the barbs will come cloaked in deference to the respect Aragorn holds for both Éomer and you. But they will be no less condemning for their subtlety. In truth, I think convincing your peers of the rightness of your choice is a more perilous road than the one the armies of the West traveled to Morannon."

"And yet..." Legolas regarded Faramir with eyes both keen and gentle. "I would wager you are willing to make the journey...at Éomer's side."

"Oh ho, so that's the way of it." Gimli shrugged to his feet and planted himself in front of Faramir's chair. Feet spread and hands upon his hips, he gave Faramir a thorough scrutiny. "Mean you to put the Rohan stallion through his paces?"

Faramir felt the heat return to his face as he held Gimli's stare. "Aye, from an amiable stroll to a full gallop."

The dwarf's roar of laughter was echoed by Aragorn and Gandalf. Even Legolas smiled.

Gimli thumped a palm upon Faramir's thigh. "Now that is a fair task. Though I doubt young Éomer will forgo his own turn in the saddle, with such a fine mount at the ready." He turned and strode back to his seat with a satisfied nod.

Faramir tried not to wince as he massaged the sting from his abused limb. He ducked his head as the flames in his cheeks burned hotter. It took more than a few moments to force his attention from memories of being twined together with Éomer in a night-dark cave.

***************

When Faramir had regained his composure, he surveyed his companions. "How will Éomer's people react when he plights his troth to a ranger from Gondor?" He could only hope it was as others said: The men and women of the Riddermark would, if not welcome, at least accept Éomer's choice of mate.

Gandalf and Aragorn shared a look, then Gandalf tilted his head as if ceding the answer to the other man.

Aragorn's grin revealed his affection for the people he spoke of. "The Éorlingas are a rather interesting blend of passionate and pragmatic. Unlike in Gondor, marriages in Rohan are never arranged and betrothals are notoriously short. They wed for love and passion, not for gain."

He shrugged. "They also acknowledge that such bonds can grow between two men, or two women. It is neither common nor encouraged, but not disdained. Oft such couples are looked to when orphans need fostering, as happened all too frequently in the years of darkness."

The chair beneath him creaked slightly as Aragorn rocked forward to rest his elbows upon his knees, hands dangling between them. His gaze rested warm upon Faramir. "The line of Éorl is secured already. I truly believe that Éomer King will face little censure for choosing a man as his consort."

Gandalf snorted. "One thing you _can_ be sure of: Anyone, from milkmaid to marshal, who does not agree with the match will tell you to your face and in no uncertain terms. The Éorlingas do not stand on ceremony, even with princes and kings."

Faramir allowed himself a small smile. "I welcome the candor. I learned plain speaking in the forests of Ithilien. Too oft has the White City seemed to be shrouded by not only the smoke from Mordor, but also a fog of rhetoric and politics."

He detested the fawning and hypocrisy he'd endured all his years at the court of Minas Tirith. Ere Denethor made public his disdain for his second-born, Faramir had been flattered and cajoled by men and women whose sweet words belied their sharp eyes. In this at least, he was grateful for Imrahil's rare honesty.

Aragorn's brows drew together. "Upon reflection, I should think Éomer choosing a _Gondorian_ man will be a more likely source of dissent, at least among some of his council."

Legolas stirred at that. "You believe that some may not wish for Gondor and Rohan to stand together?"

"Théoden was not the only one to question Gondor's commitment to Rohan's well-being." Aragorn paused. "And this new alliance is forged more between kings than countries in these early days."

He lifted a shoulder. "There will no doubt be some in the Mark who consider the losses on the Pelennor and at Morannon too high a cost for Gondor's friendship. The Éorlingas have long stood alone, and some will see no reason to do otherwise."

Gimli grunted. "Not to mention those who'll wish to sow mischief, Faramir, by asking just where the Prince Consort's true allegiance lies. If you'll be serving Gondor while servicing Rohan's king."

Gandalf gestured with his goblet. "I hold no doubt that Éomer has already considered this and made provisions for your acceptance in the Mark."

"Aye, the lad's not one to sit idle when there's work to be done," Gimli agreed as he reached over to choose a sweetmeat.

"No doubt the bards of Rohan are already singing of a certain gallant ranger's rescue of the third marshal in the darkest days of Middle-Earth." Legolas made the suggestion with a discernible gleam in his ageless eyes.

Faramir lifted a hand as if to wave away Legolas's teasing, but he bowed his head in gratitude just the same. "It seems I have only one more question to ask, then, ere we may move on to more compelling subjects."

He shifted in his chair to give his full attention to Gandalf. "You know Rohan, and you know me. I would ask you, as a friend of long years and great trust: How will I fare in Éomer's realm?"

***************

Gandalf's gentle smile reminded Faramir of the first time he'd seen the Istar. Back then, Faramir had been but a shy boy peering around corners and keeping to shadows. He could recall all the conversations that had passed between them since. Never had Gandalf wavered in his kind regard, and Faramir was most conscious of the richness of that gift.

Silence reigned for several breaths ere Gandalf began. "If you were naught more than the son of the Steward, then I would advise you to forget any plan to dwell in the Riddermark."

He set aside his goblet and stood, drifting around the room as he ruminated. "For a man of Gondor, raised with city comforts and idle pursuits, would do as well to be exiled to Mordor as the Mark. For it can be a rough land, and those who dwell there a strong and fierce people who have risen to the challenge of claiming and keeping it."

Gandalf paused by Aragorn's chair, sharing a grin with the ranger. "The Éorlingas have little use for books, for their memories are dagger-sharp and as vast as the plains they ride. They have no patience for pretense or deceit. They value men and women for their deeds, and judge them by the truth of their words. Their devotion is unswerving and their honor without end. Any promise they make they will keep, or die in the attempt."

He moved on. "But you are more than you were born to be, Faramir. True, you are a scholar ensconced in the libraries of Minas Tirith, but you are also a warrior who knows the duty of keeping your people safe. Yes, you are noble in blood---but also in spirit. And you are a ranger of Ithilien, who has lived in harmony with the land and learned that a man's rough manners can belie a strong and steadfast heart."

With a smile, Gandalf clasped Faramir's shoulder. "You will do splendidly."

Faramir could only return the smile, some of the pain of Imrahil's rejection easing at Gandalf's words. He swallowed as Gandalf delivered a last squeeze and then returned to his own seat.

Legolas leaned forward. "You will be living in the land of the horselords. Pray tell, do you _like_ horses?"

Faramir chuckled. "Aye, well enough. Although I must admit I've not the ease of days in the saddle as I'm told the Riders of Rohan train for."

Aragorn snorted. "If Éomer's council members are at all like mine, he'll be lucky to spend a morning with Firefoot ere he's pulled into meeting upon meeting about the business of the realm."

"Well, I think the most important matters have yet to be touched upon." Gimli poured a goblet of wine, took a sip, and grimaced. "You'll need to develop a taste for ale---good Rohan ale, not the colored water of Gondor or these wines that are little more than juice for weanlings."

He gave a gusty sigh. "Rohan fare is tasty, and easily shared among kith, kin, and welcomed stranger. Their tastes seem to run to the sharpness of vinegar and citrus, rarely the heat of Southern spices. And their sweets are simple dressings of fruits and nuts rather than the fancy confections I've seen at Aragorn's board."

"Aye, trust Gimli to set our priorities straight," Legolas murmured as he rose. "Although I dare say, the company at table oft transforms the simplest fare into the finest of feasts."

Faramir nodded his agreement, sitting tall once more. "Especially with love and friendship as the seasonings."


	13. Chapter 13

The wooden frame of the camp bed creaked under Éomer's weight as he perched upon the edge. He let Éowyn's hair sift through his fingers ere setting to work with a comb.

Small fires crackled in the braziers that lit and warmed Théoden's pavilion. Stray breezes shifted the tapestries that lined the fabric walls.

Éomer had offered the grand tent to Éowyn, as he still tread warily in places reserved for the king of the Riddermark. But she had insisted upon either sharing the space or making do herself with a bedroll under the stars.

So he allowed his men to arrange for two cots, along with additional furs and rugs to shield his sister from the damp air. If truth be known, Éomer was relieved to banish the cushioned chair that had served as Théoden's throne during that last stay at Dunharrow.

He worked through each section of golden strands with care, glad he'd thought to smooth the calluses on his hands ere beginning the task. He recalled when he'd first performed it: The day their mother died.

Brother and sister had clung to each other in tears and then numb silence. When darkness fell, Éowyn refused to relinquish her hold upon him. So he'd taken on the role of nursemaid, making sure they were both washed and ready for bed. His hands, made clumsy by grief, had no doubt pulled at many a snarl that first night, but Éowyn had ne'er cried out. Spent of tears already shed at their beloved mother's bedside.

For a time, they had ended every night the same: Éomer combing through Éowyn's hair and braiding it for sleep. Sharing the quiet and the surety of their bond. And in time, Éowyn recovered enough to take her turn at tending her brother.

Though no longer so frequent, neither the move to Meduseld nor the passing of the years had broken the habit when they shared a roof and felt the need for each other's company. It had been a comfort to both of them, in the grim witness of Théoden's decline and Grima's rise to power.

Éomer set aside the comb and began to weave a simple plait. When the line of Éowyn's shoulders finally eased, he spoke. "I saw no letter for Amrothos in the packet we send to Gondor on the morrow. Has he done aught to distress you?"

'Twould be a pity, if it were so. Amrothos had shown himself a good and noble man during the march to Morannon and the battle there. And though ink upon parchment was a poor means to judge, in his missive to Éomer the youngest prince of Dol Amroth seemed most sincere in his regard for Éowyn and his eagerness to further their acquaintance.

That Faramir confirmed his cousin's interest and integrity had also done much to ease Éomer's mind.

"Nay, brother, naught has gone amiss with Amrothos's quill." Her head turned enough for him to catch the slightest of smiles. "He has near a bard's skill at weaving tales. E'en from the Mundberg he can set me laughing."

Éomer tied off the braid's end with a leather thong. "But...?"

"But he writes to me of dreams, Éomer---and part of me is still lost in nightmares." Their knees bumped when Éowyn turned.

She lifted her face to his. The flames from the braziers shimmered in her eyes. "You know how oft you have wakened me from the dark wanderings of my mind."

"Aye, as oft as I have disturbed your rest." 'Twas true. Most nights one of them jerked awake, gasping at the visions that haunted their sleep. So many ghosts---people and events tainted with rage and helplessness and the bitter flavor of guilt. Victory had done little as yet to loosen their grip.

"Do they ever fade?" The plea hidden in the question was plainly seen on Éowyn's face. In eyes aged beyond her tender years.

Éomer gathered her close. Sighed as she settled against his chest, her forehead cool against his throat. "In time, Éowyn. As days and memories pass, new thoughts can crowd out the old. All our lives, peace has been beyond our ken. 'Twill take more than a few wheels of the moon for the idea to make a home within."

Éowyn's voice sank to a whisper. "Some morns I still wake thinking of how I must endure another day with uncle, with the Worm..."

"Aye, so have my thoughts tricked me." Éomer felt Éowyn's grip around him tighten. He leaned into the offered comfort, his cheek resting upon her hair. "For some moments I believe us all still trapped in the battle against the minions of darkness. And wonder if this be the day I breathe my last."

His sigh stirred the golden strands beneath his chin. "But I hold hope that sometime hence we shall find these dreams are like broken bones well-healed, only aching now and again with the rain."

He stroked a hand down Éowyn's back. "And you can hold no doubt that Amrothos bears his own share of wounds to both flesh and spirit. All survivors do."

"Aye, 'tis true enough." Éowyn's fingers toyed with the hem of Éomer's tunic. "When I rode with the host from Dunharrow, all I wanted was to die in battle. To stand as a warrior, to strike some blow against evil ere I met my end. But now..."

She raised herself up to meet Éomer's gaze. "Now I find myself yearning for quieter pursuits."

Éomer clasped careful hands around her shoulders. "Éowyn, I have promised that your life is your own. If there be some task or study that calls you, I'd bid you follow it to your heart's content."

Her smile was his reward. "I take you at your word. For I would henceforth dedicate my time to the lore of herb and balm, the binding of wounds and setting of bones. Although I'll ne'er truly abandon the sword and shield, I now mean to take up the healing arts."

Éowyn stood, pressing a quick kiss to Éomer's forehead. "Send not the messenger to Gondor ere I pen a missive to Amrothos."

He lounged back upon the bed. "Aye, he'll need fair warning of your plans. I wonder how the son of Imrahil will take this transformation from wild shieldmaiden to meek and gentle healer."

Éowyn whirled to face him, eyes dancing. "Surely 'tis not so great a changing as yours, brother---from warrior king to lady's maid."

Éomer reached for a pillow close to hand. He did not let laughter spoil his aim.

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Long ere the company reached the gates of Aldburg, Éomer could see people lining the road. Could sense the strain of waiting that stretched their bodies into tall, tense shapes, hands lifted to shield anxious eyes from the glare of the sun.

So many waited in vain. Knew it by the lists of dead and wounded sent from Cormallen and later the Mundberg. So many men had been left broken and buried on the Pelennor. Each widowed spouse, each orphaned child, each grieving parent and sibling would receive those sorrowful tidings from his own lips. Along with what comfort words could offer in the place of welcoming arms.

Though poor comfort 'twould be. These fallen men were the ones Éomer had known best. Boys he'd scampered with through the streets of Aldburg ere his parents' deaths. Warriors he'd trained with and then led when he took up his father's mantle as Third Marshal. Farmers, merchants, and artisans he'd called forth from fields and shops as part of Théoden's muster of the Rohirrim.

"Éomer! Look!" Éowyn's pointing finger bade him seek the plains beyond Aldburg's walls.

A herd of horses conquered the ground with the thunder of hundreds of hooves. At their head... "Meara," Éomer whispered.

A full twoscore of the legendary steeds of Rohan formed a wedge behind a magnificent white stallion, near as great in flesh and spirit as Shadowfax, Lord of Horses. The meareth slewed to a stop in front of Éomer and Firefoot, trumpeting a challenge.

Éomer rubbed a hand on Firefoot's neck, soothing the sudden tension in his mount's frame. "Peace, now." He swung his leg over the broad back and dismounted. Walked with a stride of deliberate ease to the leader of this band.

The meareth shook his head, forelock flopping 'twixt wide-set dark eyes. Éomer approached at an angle to stay in view. He bowed in greeting. "The great darkness is defeated. The price was great. But the blood of Éorl still flows as strong as Felaróf's in the Riddermark."

The stallion's gaze held Éomer's a long moment. Then the meareth stepped forward to press a shoulder to Éomer's chest. Éomer's arms came around the arching neck of their own accord.

He leaned against this symbol of his people's past and future. Felt a kind of comfort and confidence---the age-old bond 'twixt horse and rider.

After a time without measure, Éomer stepped back and bowed once more. The meareth wheeled and took off across the pasture with mane and tail flowing in the wind of its own making. The other meara followed, their neighs and the drumming of their hooves lingering in the air.

The shout of "Papa!" was all the warning Éomer had.

He spun and dropped to one knee, his arms opening to receive the miniature blonde whirlwind he called daughter. Éodeara crashed against his chest, skirts fluttering as chubby arms wound tight around his neck. "Papa, Papa, Papa," she crooned as she rocked from one foot to the other.

"Aye, swéteu, Papa's here." The sudden thickness of his throat kept him from saying aught else. He ignored the sting in his eyes to search the crowd for the boys.

"'Deara, Grandmother said to _wait_." Elfwine stomped up and settled his hands on his hips. His kinship to Éowyn was obvious from his features---and the fierceness of his glare.

Éomer shifted Éodeara to the side to free one arm. He clutched Elfwine close. The boy had grown at least three fingerwidths in the time Éomer had been away. "Son." He choked on the word. One he'd rarely used while Théodred still lived.

Ere now, Éomer had always seen himself as a foster. But now---now he was truly the only parent they had left. For good or ill, they were _his_.

He tried not to wince as two slight weights landed on his back. He laughed to feel small hands seek purchase on his shoulders. "Théomund, Dúnoden---I wondered if you'd forsaken your father for some mischief."

One figure scrambled farther up. He guessed 'twas Théomund by its longer shape and slighter weight. "We would never have done that, Father."

Éomer turned his head enough to brush a kiss across the child's furrowed brow. "I was but jesting, Théo."

"We watched the mearas, Papa." Dúnoden slid to curl around Éomer's bicep. "Gran said to wait 'til you could be prop'ly greeted---but 'Deara didn't wanna."

The boy leaned in to whisper, blond curls tickling Éomer's cheek. "We didn't wanna wait either."

"It pleases me that you did not, for my heart ached to hold you once more." Éomer cuddled them all as best he could. Their sun-warmed scents mingled with the fresh breeze carrying the aromas of grass and horses.

He was home.

"If you e'er tire of mauling your father, your aunt awaits a greeting from her kin." Éowyn dismounted and met his gaze with a wink.

In the space of a breath, Éomer was free and watching his brood flinging themselves upon their next conquest. He pushed himself to his feet with a chuckle. "You're a brave woman, sister."

Éowyn just laughed and leaned down to accept her own set of hugs and kisses.

"Well come, Éomer King." Éomer's mother-by-bond stood before him. She was still sapling-slim and unbowed by the years that had turned her coronet of braids from gold to silver.

Éomer nodded a greeting. "Well met, Flita."

Dúneara and Dúneald's father stepped past his wife to clap Éomer on the shoulder. "'Tis good to see you home. The house of Éorl has lost too many this cruel season."

'Twas easy to return the smile that lit Dúnward's face. Here were the traits seen so clearly in Dúnoden---the strong, square build and sky-bright eyes beaming from their nest of sun-wrought wrinkles. "'Tis good to be home, Dúnward, though many of our kin lie healing in Gondor or in final rest 'neath the Pelennor Fields."

Dúnward cast a somber gaze over the diminished number of men and mounts that had returned from duty most perilous. "Aye, the Riddermark's safety has long been bought in blood."

"And yet, some small joys may also be counted from our time in other lands." Éomer swallowed as Flita nodded a farewell, turned, and strode toward Éowyn and the children. "I would ask a private conference with you and Flita ere you retire this night. And I would also bid you have someone prepare the children's trunks for our journey to Edoras."

He shrugged. "You and Flita are welcome to join us, of course. 'Twould be an honor to host you for as many days as you wish to dwell in the Golden Hall."

Dúnward lifted a scarred hand to stroke his long beard. "I cannot answer---'twill depend on Flita. Our life is here---she has taken quite a few of the young widows under her wing. She may not wish to abandon them so soon."

By Éomer's reckoning, Flita may have greater reason to stay in Aldburg ere the night was done. Already, the wind might carry rumors of his association with Faramir. He doubted 'twould make it any easier to tell Dúneara's parents he had found another to take their daughter's place in his affections.

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Éomer did naught to spare himself the full force of Flita's blow. Pain and heat bloomed upon his cheek in the shape of her hand. He rocked, steadied, and braced for a second slap.

"Nay!" 'Twas Dúnward who grabbed Flita's wrist---and her waist as she struggled toward Éomer with fingers clawed. Dúnward forced her arms down. "Peace, woman. I'll not watch the King of the Mark treated like an errant stable boy."

Flita's glittering eyes stabbed into Éomer's with silent accusations. Her words were for her husband of nearly twoscore years. "Yet you'll watch that same king befoul our daughter's memory with this---this _unnatural_ mating with a man of Gondor!"

"'Tis naught to do with Dúneara. Your daughter ne'er doubted my feelings for her. I miss her still." Éomer's hands lifted and spread. "My heart has lain fallow, but it seems that a new bond has now sprouted there."

He sought Dúnward's gaze. "Against all reckoning, Faramir has stolen my affections. And I am richer for the theft."

The lines on the older man's face eased. "We did not expect this, 'tis true. But the path of love is a mystery none can track."

He shifted his hold on Flita to an embrace. "Dúneara would not want us to forsake her husband o'er this...nor would Dúneald."

Flita broke from her husband's arms. "Speak not of that. I'll not hear word against my son."

Dúnward sighed. "Díereu, we both know he preferred the company of his shieldbrothers far more than any maid's."

But she only shook her head. Her gaze sought Éomer's once more. "Éomer King, I ask leave to depart and prepare the children for their move to Meduseld."

The old woman's body drew to a spear's unyielding. "I'll not accompany them."

Éomer could only nod and watch her stiff stride as she departed. He startled at the touch of Dúnward's hand upon his shoulder.

Dúnward shook his head. "She still grieves her children. 'Tis too soon, mayhap, to ask her accept another by your side, though ye're seasons past your year of mourning."

"I swear to you, Dúneara will ne'er be forgotten." Éomer's throat worked. "Nor will Dúneald."

Dúnward's grip tightened. "I know, Éomer. I know."

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Éomer watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of morning sun that lit the tiled floor of his study. Remembered his father hunched behind the desk peering at maps of the Eastfold. His dark mutterings about orcs and battle rising and falling in counterpoint to the gentle voice of Éomer's mother as she mended shirts in a nearby chair.

He took a fortifying breath, then turned to face those he'd called to this uncertain conference.

Three men stood waiting: Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Éothain. Men he had known since his early days in Edoras. Warriors he had fought beside. The best of the Rohirrim. And if they willed it, Marshal of the West-mark, Marshal of the East-mark, and Captain of the Edoras guard.

"'Tis by accident of birth and tragedy of battle that I now serve as leader of the Éorlingas." He paused as the shades of Théoden and Théodred passed across his memory. "While neither you nor I can gainsay this turn of fortune, I have no wish to have you serve under my banner unwilling."

Éomer lifted his chin. "I tell you plain: I have formed a bond with Faramir of Gondor. If that bond holds true after he has dwelled among us for a time, I shall plight my troth to him and bid him serve as Prince Consort and Underking. If this notion brings you naught but disgust, speak now. I'll not hold it against you if you prefer to withdraw from my counsel or court."

Éothain folded brawny arms across his barrel chest. "How now, Éomer? I wager I've saved your life half a dozen times or more and you ne'er fluttered your eyes at me. Yet this paragon of Gondor has won your affections with but a single play at gallantry?"

"Truth be told, Éothain, 'tis your close resemblance to my horse that proves impossible to o'ercome. I fear Firefoot would not forgive such betrayal." Éomer doubted not that the loyalty of his boyhood friend was more a measure of Éothain's worth than Éomer's deserving.

"You have acted with honor all the days of your life, Éomer." Elfhelm stepped forward. The clear gray eyes in his lean and weather-beaten face spoke of the years Éomer had trained under Elfhelm's steady hand. And mayhap whispered of a secret deliberately ignored, a tale of love 'twixt two young Rohirrim in Elfhelm's eored. "I believe neither kingship nor consort will change that."

"It falls to me, then, to take our sovereign to task." Erkenbrand had held the Westfold longer than Éomer had been a Rohir, yet they had ne'er shared more than a score of fires and battles----and most of those within this last dark season.

The marshal had always seemed more of bear or bull than horse to Éomer, in both frame and temperament. The hint of red in the blond-and-gray mix of his beard bespoke the man's fierce temper.

Éomer drew himself up once more to hear the elder's words.

"To me it seems a strange and sudden mystery, your infatuation with this ranger of Ithilien. And a risky one to indulge, when there waits a princess of Dol Amroth or a noble of our own land to be had for your bride and our queen." Erkenbrand regarded Éomer from under beetled brows. "Who is to say the fire that burns in your loins is naught more than a bright spark on a wisp of straw, as quick to fade as to flare?"

Éomer met the challenge with firm voice and steady gaze. "I know naught of the future, Erkenbrand, but I shall say this: My heart is set upon Faramir. 'Tis for him to make or break this bond. And mayhap he will, once he sees what 'twill mean to call the Riddermark home. But e'en if Faramir rejects my suit, no woman of Gondor---nor daughter of Éorl---shall e'er sit by my side upon the throne at Meduseld."

The memory of Faramir's smile when last they met brought Éomer some ease. 'Twas no counterfeit in his calm as he awaited Erkenbrand's judgment.

Silence filled the space for threescore heartbeats. Then Erkenbrand's grizzled head dropped in a slow nod. "So be it, Éomer King."

Éomer nodded, then turned toward the door. "Then 'tis time. On to Edoras!"


	14. Chapter 14

Éomer's nostrils flared as he breathed deep, tightening the reins on his temper. "Elfwine, come here. I need to talk to all of you."

The boy shot a slit-eyed glance over bunched shoulders. Éomer waved a hand toward the weathered wooden bench the rest of the children were fidgeting on.

It occupied a clear space in the bedraggled garden that sloped down the back of Meduseld. In the more sheltered spaces, the sturdy plants and trees of Rohan mixed with samples of Gondorian stock brought during Morwen Queen's time.

Unlike the carefully tended kitchen and herb gardens farther down, this retreat of the royal family had fallen into neglect with Théoden's decline. Éomer hoped that it could be placed into some sort of order ere the summer arrival of their guests from Gondor---one special guest in particular.

This tiny grove would ne'er replace the grand forests of Ithilien, but mayhap it could provide some respite for Faramir when the man's eyes wearied of seeing the Riddermark's grassy plains.

"Elfwine." This time Éomer added a touch of command to his tone. He had postponed most business for four days, to help the children settle into their rooms and discover the turns and straights of Meduseld and Edoras. Not that Elfwine had cooperated in the least.

The boy had offered only short answers and sulky shrugs since they'd left Aldburg. Like as not he was mourning the loss of friends and the only home he'd known ere now---and all the memories of his lost mother that dwelled therein.

And though Éomer well understood the tumult of such change, he could spare no more time.

Elfwine kicked one more pebble into the bushes, then slouched his way to the end of the bench. The younger boys looked at their elder brother and then each other. Éodeara tugged on Éomer's tunic and raised her arms to be picked up.

Éomer lifted her onto his lap as he sank with a sigh between Théomund and Dúnoden. "I know 'tis strange for you here. Éowyn and I felt much the same when we moved to Meduseld to live with Théoden King."

Théomund's eyes widened. "There's so much to read here, Father! Whole _rooms_ full of scrolls and books!"

Dúnoden snuggled into Éomer's side. "My pony wants outside the paddock, Papa. Not to just go 'round an' 'round an' 'round."

"She does, hmmm?" Éomer lifted a brow. "Then we shall have to make sure she doesn't get bored."

He sobered as he studied four upturned faces. "I must leave upon the morrow."

The chorus of "Nay" was one voice short. Elfwine's eyes only narrowed.

Éomer straightened his shoulders and forged on. "Aye. I must travel the Riddermark, to discover how our people fare."

The damage wrought by war and the Worm's meddlings must be catalogued. Only then could Éomer determine what the Éorlingas and their herds needed to survive and grow strong once more.

"'Twill be some weeks, but I'll return to spend time with you ere I go to Mundberg to fetch Théoden King's body home." He touched each child upon the cheek---save Elfwine, who shrugged away so Éomer's hand landed on the boy's tangled mane.

"Promise?" Éodeara's plea would have melted a stone heart, and Éomer had no such defense.

"Aye. But you must mind your Aunt Éowyn." He swallowed down a lump of guilt. "Mayhap she'll take you to Aldburg to visit your grandparents while I'm gone."

Elfwine hunched into himself yet more with a sullen mutter. "'Tis your fault they're not here."

The prickle of Éomer's nape always signaled danger. He stood and set Éodeara gently upon the bench. "Walk with me, Elfwine. Théo, 'Den---keep 'Deara and yourselves out of trouble."

Éomer matched his son's shorter stride. He led them to a small nook formed by the overgrown brush. "What is it you think you know, Elfwine?"

The boy's fists clenched, his stiff posture as forbidding as Isengard. "Grandmother told me that she'll ne'er set foot in Edoras again. That you've found some filthy whoreson to take Mama's place!"

Rage surged in heat and blood. Éomer's hand drew back without thought---but Elfwine's cringe stayed the blow. Éomer froze, trembling like a stallion spurred then pulled short.

He lowered his head, breaths gusting as he swallowed down his anger. The true target was nowhere in range. "Ne'er speak so again, Elfwine. I forbid it."

The boy stood his ground. "'Tis true, then."

"None will take your mother's place, in your memory or mine. But I do hope Faramir of Gondor will make his home here in Meduseld with us. And I expect you to keep a civil tone---whether speaking to him or of him. D'you ken?"

He cursed Flita's wayward tongue. He'd hoped to introduce Faramir---the idea of him, at least---in a more gradual fashion.

A sudden weight settled onto Éomer's shoulders as Elfwine took off down the hill, sliding and skidding in his rush to escape.

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"Take care, brother---orcs and wargs yet dwell in shadowed places." Éowyn's glance flickered o'er Éomer's armor and weapons. He followed her scrutiny to the score of Rohirrim and their horses crowding the stable yard. Hundreds more waited past the gates of Edoras. The men of the West-mark ready to return home. And rebuild their lives.

Deft fingers flashed in the dawn light as Éowyn tightened the lumpy cloth sack of apples Éomer had just secured to Firefoot's saddle.

Éomer scratched 'neath his stallion's forelock as the gray whickered. "Aye, sister---like as not you'd pursue me to the very Halls of Mandos if I dared abandon the Riddermark to your tender care."

Éowyn grinned, but it faded as she shifted to lay a hand upon his shoulder. "Elfwine did not farewell you?"

A sigh escaped ere Éomer could halt it. "He has not left his room since yestermorn."

He had revealed only the content of Elfwine's outburst, burying the shame of his own reaction to it. That he had come so close to striking a child...even now the memory shivered along his skin. He'd seen---experienced---so much of violence and depravity. Would the scars upon his soul fade with the end of the war, or would they be as deeply set as the whipmarks upon his flesh?

"'Tis a fine sulk he's enjoying. It seems I shall have some sharp words to speak to my brother-son." Éowyn's eyes narrowed as her hands moved to her hips.

"Éowyn, nay." Éomer shook his head with a frown. "I'll not have the boy bullied. Elfwine will make peace with this in his own time---without interference."

'Twas the least he could do, as he had no intention of setting aside Faramir on Elfwine's say-so. Or anyone else's. But the road ahead would be harder than he'd hoped.

"Very well. I've no doubt in time he'll come 'round, Éomer." Her expression turned sly. "You always seem so much more admirable in your absence."

Éomer snorted and chucked his sister's chin. Smiled his appreciation of her jest. "For shame, woman---'tis a pretty turn of phrase to offer your king."

"Bah, you'll e'er be my brother first and longer." Éowyn smacked his chest ere she departed in a thud of boots and a whirl of pale skirts.

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Helm's Deep had changed little. Stone and ground still bore the wounds of battle. The mounds of honored dead held only the faintest mist of new grass upon them. The rooms and halls of the Hornburg had been swept and washed clean, but e'en a careless eye could not miss the scorch marks, splintered wood, and ripped tapestries.

Éomer settled back in his chair and regarded the men and women lining the great oaken table. Old or young, fair or plain, ruddy, tanned, or pale, their faces bore the strain of war and its aftermath. The faint kindling of new hope dampened by the grief of loss. Both of their kin and their leader.

For these were Théodred's people, now Erkenbrand's. Little did they know of Théoden King these last years, or the sister-son so abruptly come to the throne.

'Twas fortunate the bulk of that small acquaintance was his daybreak charge at Gandalf's side against the forces beseiging the Hornburg. Éomer's valor---and timely intervention---had earned him some goodwill. He'd need it in the face of the challenges outlined by the woman seated across from him.

"There's naught left to say, Éomer King. Luck and our enemies' rush to battle favored us enough that neither soil nor water was fouled by the filth that roamed the land. Though little rebuilding has occurred, we've done what planting we could these last moons. Now that men and horses are returned the work'll go faster. As it must." So spoke Berthild, Erkenbrand's wife.

She was as solid and unremarkable as the plains themselves. By the frosting of her hair and the lines upon her face, Éomer would guess she was the elder in that marriage by some years.

Yet she held all attention, for her rich voice rang with conviction and command that any queen---or king---would envy. "'Tis food we need most, my lord. Those villages that escaped the burning can only share so much ere their own people suffer."

Erkenbrand's heavy head swung toward Éomer. "We'll hunt and gather what we can, but care must be taken while still so early in the growing season."

True to his word, the marshal had lent cautious support to his new sovereign. And revealed a greater sense of diplomacy than Éomer had given the man credit for, in turning aside idle chatter of Gondorian brides and the dowries of grain and gold that no doubt came with them.

Éomer nodded. "Aye, I'd not see our present need strip us of the chance for a later recovery. The East-mark was none so hard hit, nor were the lands close to the White Mountains. Already Éowyn and Elfhelm gather what food and fodder may be sent to ease your hunger."

He'd already felt the first pangs himself. They'd carried what provisions they could---not wanting to increase the burden on those Éorlingas who sheltered them on this tour. But their food was lately spread thin as gruel on the days they did not hunt or fish.

Even the stew that had preceded this meeting had been more of turnip and onion than mutton. But Éomer and his men had savored every bite and sopped up the watery gravy with small hunks of brown bread. Ne'er would a Rohir be anything but grateful for a hot meal.

Though he could not help compare the meager offerings of this board to the richer fare at Cormallen. Though Minas Tirith had suffered much, most of Gondor's people had been spared the deprivations the Éorlingas now faced.

He had to hope that Aragorn meant his declaration of brotherhood and would act to aid those who had sacrificed so many lives to Gondor's need.

This very night Éomer would take up scroll and quill to make the plea to Gondor. Though truth to tell the notion twinged his pride. Not for himself---there was little he would not endure to see his people safe and well---but for the Éorlingas themselves.

It had cost them much to honor the promise of generations past. He'd have liked to not see them pay again in the written equivalent of bows and scrapes---not for a single morsel. But he could not wait to speak king to king to make his case.

Nor could he in good conscience lay the task upon Faramir. Not while they had naught but possibility between them.

After a moment more, Éomer thanked all who had gathered and bade them good night.

When he reached his chamber, he sighed as he stretched the long time sitting from his bones.

A knock sounded. "My lord, if I may have a moment?"

Éomer would ne'er have dared open the door if he'd not recognized Berthild's voice. Far too many times on this journey had he been beset with offers of "comfort". Some nights it seemed every maid and widow in the Riddermark sought lodging in his bed.

His head would have swelled to barrel-size if he'd not admitted the allure throne and crown gave him. And the simple fact that he was healthy and not unhandsome in a land culled of many of its men.

Berthild entered and stood in the clear space between the hearth and the bed. Her blunt-tipped fingers twisted 'round each other in a restless dance. "We are near strangers, my lord, but my regard for our late prince spurs me. May I ask---how fare your children?"

Éomer blinked. Of all possible topics, this had not sprung to mind. "They are well, though befuddled by the move to Edoras and saddened by the loss of their kin."

A tender light softened her gaze. "Théodred Prince oft spoke of them, with such pride and doting one would think they sprang from his own loins."

The sudden mist in Éomer's sight and thickness in his throat kept him silent a few breaths. He swallowed. "Aye, well they knew his love for them."

'Twas true. Though Théodred had been based at the Hornburg, he'd oft included a trip to Aldburg when traveling to Edoras to report to Théoden King. Éomer had no count of the many times he'd seen Théodred cradling a newborn son or daughter or dandling a young one upon his knee. Of the times Éomer saw him cast a smile of both love and regret at Dúneara o'er the children's heads.

Éomer had ne'er asked what it cost them to live the lie that kept the children safe. But he'd felt Théodred's tears hot against his neck, echoed the keen of loss as he'd clung to his cousin that terrible day that took both Dúneara and Dúneald from them.

He'd known how fiercely Théodred had longed to be a father to the children he'd sired. 'Twas plain in his gaze when he looked upon them. In his voice when he spoke to them. And in the crush of his arms as he held them ere riding away to his lonely exile in these caves of stone.

No wonder Théodred spoke of the children to this good woman. "I thank you, my lady, for asking after them. Mayhap you will visit us at Meduseld come summer, and you can meet them for yourself."

"That I will do, now that the shadow is gone from the Golden Hall." She rested a sudden hand upon his forearm, her gaze still warm. "Our prince spoke of you as well. Ne'er doubt he would be content to know the Riddermark has passed into your hands, Éomer King."

He could only nod and hope that her faith in him would not falter when his true nature was revealed.

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Éomer crouched in the grass next to Firefoot. He ran his hands carefully down the stallion's legs, searching for heat or swelling. After confirming that all was well, he pivoted to watch the pile of orc corpses burn.

His company came upon them by chance, as the beasts hid in a hollow a few leagues from a small village. No doubt waiting for nightfall.

The skirmish was quick and bloody. By good fortune, neither man nor horse suffered more than bruises and glancing blows.

As the flames danced in the deepening twilight, Éomer could not help but reflect upon his last grisly bonfire upon the plains. The morn of his first meeting with the three strangers who'd become honored friends: Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn.

He moved his shoulders 'neath his armor. The lack of pain from the movement was a welcome change from that prior battle. Then, he'd broke open healing scabs with the thrusts and swings of lance and sword.

Then, he'd lost fifteen men and a dozen horses. The Riddermark had sacrificed so many more since. 'Twas hard sometimes to believe that hope had returned to these lands, with so many still threatened by the remnants of Saruman's plans to bring the Éorlingas to utter ruin.

"The beasts were carrying more than the crude swords of Isengard." Éothain stopped a stride away, scratching 'neath his beard. "Their knives had the look of Dunland craft."

"Aye." Éomer levered himself up with a sigh. "Think you they were prizes---or gifts?"

Éothain's shoulders lifted. "'Tis impossible to know. The tracks are not clear, but this lot may have come from across the Isen."

"And there's no telling what business they had there. If the wildmen hold to the alliance brokered by the Wizard of the White Hand..." Éomer shook his head. "We are ill-equipped to defend against another war with man _or_ beast---much less the two together."

"Naught can we do but keep watch and keep ready, my friend." Éothain's broad hand clamped upon his sword hilt. "For anything."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism is treasured as a rare gift.


End file.
